


The Orphan Maker

by Lancette



Category: Being Human (UK)
Genre: Existential Angst, Gen, There may be angst, and sex and death, angst and blood, drug references, pregnancy loss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-25 14:37:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lancette/pseuds/Lancette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Revisiting old Being Human friends. Herrick says he recruited Mitchell because he saw in him a terrible man. An orphan maker. Was he right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Wild Strangeness

### Prologue

****

**_Monday, June 11th, 1917. France. Before._ **

****

So this is death. The earth grips, pinning him in place while the life is sucked from him. Every second stretches out for an eternity. He can't move. He waits for release, for the crunch of the death blow taking everyone around him, but it only laughs in his face and leaves him untouched.

He risks a glance to the side even though he knows it's wrong. If he looks then the man beside him will die for sure. There is no escape. His friends die, all of them, one by one by one while he watches. Helpless. A stab of jealousy pierces his gut. The friend at his side is lucky, he gets to stand on a corpse, he's not being sucked down into oblivion.

His mind rages. This isn't mud. This unearthly slime enveloping his legs and melding him to hell on earth can't just be mud. Some alchemy has taken the fertile soil of the farms and transformed it into a sea of blood and death.

There was a time when he'd laughed at the idea of hell. Not any more.

It's getting darker. The ear-shredding sounds of artillery fire are fading further away. Through the smoke infused twilight fingers reach down towards him. Hands wrap under his arms and hold him, and pull him up and free. His comrades are gathering him to them.

A slap on his shoulder proves he's alive once more. He hears Arthur's voice, fuzzy through the dense fog thrumming in his ears. "Come on Johnny. Johnny, you made it. It's the luck of the Irish we've got, for sure. Let's go brew up. You can walk fine if you lean on me a bit. Not that much, you fucker. Hurry. Johnny, can you hear me? You have to move. That's it. You're doing grand. Come on, it's gonna start pissing down again and the rats will be wondering where we've got to."

"Jesus. What took you so fuckin' long. Bastards." he says and they laugh, as he knows they would. There is never a need to say thank you, no need to admit your fear. They already know.

He came here to fight for hope and freedom. He came to win and make himself a hero. He loves his comrades with an intensity he doesn't understand and he would lay down his life for every last one of them. His men look to him and he leads the way despite the weight of his inadequacies. Those who are left have made it this far together against inhuman odds, but by now he knows there's only one way out of hell. He can't protect them however desperately he tries. All of his friends will die somewhere on this battlefield one day very soon. Nothing he can do will change that, but he will go on fighting fate to the end.

A week later death lays its ambush.

And - sometimes — death cheats.

* * *

 

_**Sunday, July 29th, 1917. France. After.** _

__

He stops dead in his tracks, and it's true, you can smell fear.

He thought he'd experienced everything terror could throw at him, but in the weeks since dying Mitchell has learnt new, strange and unknown variations of fear. First the corridor - the men. Then the nightmare of Herrick reaching out to him, trying to calm him with terrible fairytales. His violent, desperate rejection of the truth driving him back to the arms of his regiment. But that was just the beginning, the next four weeks were unimaginable. Eternal circles of fear and horror and disbelief.

And now here he is, standing shoulder to shoulder with nightmare creatures. There are only four of them facing a dozen soldiers, and yet the fear is all on one side. It's exhilarating to watch as the fight deserts them. It is almost funny seeing their faces as Smithy pulls out the knife embedded in his chest where a soldier had so expertly thrown it, still calmly moving towards them with eyes as black as the grave. Faced with the unholy sight the soldiers are shrinking away from them now, grinding their backs into the sides of the trench or digging frantically at the slime with their hands, but there's nowhere for the fuckers to go.

Mitchell steps down into the mud of the trench and stands over one of them. He's a boy really, a little younger than Mitchell himself - nineteen, twenty maybe. The boy drops his bayonet and remains frozen. Mitchell looks down into blue eyes washed with terror and smiles for the first time in weeks. He is interrupted by shouting behind him, loud enough to register over the booms of artillery fire.

"Just get on with it. Idiot!"

Sounds like the weasel. Seth may be Herrick's right-hand-man but Mitchell doesn't feel any need to listen to that streak of piss. Instead he turns his head to look at Herrick.

"No hurry son." Herrick steps closer above him. "No reason why you shouldn't make the most of your moment to be a hero."

Mitchell looks down at the boy. Something stirs in him but he doesn't choose to recognise it. Maybe it's pity, maybe it's disgust, but he tells himself he doesn't give a fuck either way. Whatever it is he pushes it back deep into himself. This post has been shelling his regiment for weeks. He doesn't know how many of his friends have died in the days since he ran, but it's too many.

There had been no choice but to run. He had to erase the picture of Arthur sitting there among the sandbags - the friend he left surrounded by the little they'd shared, never knowing the true horror of the betrayal but dead all the same. He ran from the shame of it, of course he did, but most of all he ran from the horror of knowing it wasn't enough. It could never be enough and he would kill every last one of his men trying to make it enough.

Instead he ran to find Herrick. He is one of them now.

"Stay back the both of you, give him time." Seth and Smithy stop where they stand on the edge of the trench at Herrick's command.

"I don't need time." The snap in his voice silences them all.

He knows what to do. He has learnt how to feed on the nearly-dead of all armies to quench the vicious thirst. He has also learnt how to stifle the cries of self-disgust in the quiet of the nights, and almost welcomes the faces and moans that thread their pain through his dreams. If he holds on to them maybe he can control this monster he is becoming.

But today is different. This is the crucible of war. Rage boils up inside him alongside the hunger. Fangs force their release and for the first time the feeling is exhilarating.

"Then I think it's time to step forward, my boy." The voice in his ear speaks.

The desire to evicerate every soldier cowering in the mud crashes over him. The blue eyed boy is stiff and shaking as Mitchell throws him sideways. He hears German words pleading around him until they fracture into primal howls of terror. As he slices into living human flesh Mitchell feels the raging heartbeat forcing the blood so hard and fast it hits the back of his throat.

Christ, it hadn't been like this before. The drugged blood of his friend and the seeping blood of the dying wounded didn't feel anything like this. Jesus Christ. Overwhelmed, he drains the life from the boy in minutes, his body frantically drawing it into him.

He doesn't even look towards Herrick for permission as he lets the boy's body fall away into the mud and stands on it as he propels himself over to the next soldier. They are all his to take now.

It is a liberation.

 

* * *

 

"That wasn't very comradely of you, Johnny-boy."

Seth reaches a hand down to pull Mitchell from the mire of mud and blood. "A couple each for us and, what, five, six for you, hey? You owe us."

Herrick shoos Seth behind him and gestures Mitchell forwards.

"We'd better get away from here. Listen to me Mitchell. Mitchell! Are you listening to me? Good. Right. The most important thing you need to remember is always to keep one pace ahead, keep moving. That way no unpleasant questions get asked."

Mitchell takes a step forward, but his head is spinning and he can't hold himself upright. He drops to his knees, breathing ragged, and wipes the congealing blood away from his eyes so he can look up at Herrick.

"So how do you feel, soldier?"

"Not afraid. I don't feel afraid." Mitchell looks down, "But my hands won't stop shaking."

"That's normal. There is too much new blood in your body. It will make you strong but you took it so fast your body needs to regulate itself. Don't worry, it will adjust and I promise you will feel like a king."

A few deep breaths and Mitchell hauls himself upright again. "Let's go then." But he can't prevent himself from looking over his shoulder at the carnage he leaves behind.

"Oh God." he whispers as he stares, hypnotised by the brutality of the scene.

It is Herrick's abrupt and commanding "Look away Mitchell!" that turns him around. "You've seen worse sights than that a hundred times over, haven't you?"

Mitchell nods.

"How long have you been here?" Herrick doesn't usually ask such personal questions.

"Sixteen months."

"That's a lifetime here. You survived the Somme with your regiment then. Come on, man, you've seen very much worse than this. You _know_ what humans are willing do to each other - not for survival, you understand - simply for a furlong of earth.

"How many men did you kill in those months? You don't even know, do you? I wager it was considerably more than five. Don't concern yourself, son. These men? They were killers too. If you were returning to your regiment they would give you a medal for an act so courageous. Be proud, soldier. Such is war."

Mitchell looks down at his hands. The green woollen army gloves are blackened and sticky with blood and worse.

"It's the first time I've touched an enemy with my hands, not a weapon."

 

* * *

 

It's a long walk back to the encampment and Mitchell feels the strength growing in his veins. His strides become longer and faster and he raises his head up from the ground. He looks across battlefields laid out before him as a beautiful red dusk settles across a blighted landscape. The world is infused with a wild strangeness. A strangeness that excites him.

He rips off the filthy gloves as he walks. Without warning he checks, turns, and with a cry of effort hurls them as far away into the trees as his considerable strength can manage.

Nothing is said, but as he takes up the walk again Mitchell sees Herrick smile into the distance. It's a triumphant smile and he wonders why it should disturb him so much. He wishes Herrick would stop smiling like that when he looks at him.

But the grin is even brighter as Herrick puts a hand on Mitchell's shoulder as they approach the tents. "I neglected to say earlier, so I think now is a good time to mention it: happy birthday Mitchell."

Yes. He is one of them now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (The chapter title is taken from the testimony of the WW1 poet Siegfried Sassoon. "I stared about me; the smoke-drifted twilight was alive with intense movement, and there was a wild strangeness in the scene which somehow excited me." (Memoirs of an Infantry Officer, 1930))


	2. Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The war is over and Mitchell takes his first steps into the civilian world as a vampire. As ever, Herrick is there to help him find his way.

##### Thursday, 5th December 1918. Belgium

Mitchell fell backwards and heard the sound of a half-laugh, half-sigh escape his lips. A long forgotten sensation wrapped him up; the peace to feel his head rest on a pillow his body cushioned on a down mattress. He lay still, savouring the tingle of shaded light as it filtered through lace curtains and brushed across his fingertips. He listened to the silence of the closed door. It had been so long.

Through closed eyes he saw pale blue skies and green fields and smelt grass still wet with dew. If he listened carefully he might make out the sounds of voices - of laughter and music. He strained to call them back. If he concentrated… he could remember…

Three sharp knocks on the door pulled him upright in an instant. Herrick already stood framed in the doorway. Mitchell waved an arm to beckon him in. No escape it seemed, not even for a moment.

"Oh dear. I never promised you luxury, Mitchell, but I think I should apologise for this." Herrick's hand swept across the room with its metal bedstead, lumpy mattress, battered old armchair and low chest of drawers with a wash bowl and cracked mirror sitting on top. "But needs must, and this isn't exactly Paris. I should take you to Paris…."

"You know what, Herrick? It's fine. Really it is. It suits me."

"Well if you say so." Herrick's lip almost physically curled in distaste, and Mitchell laughed despite himself.

"You are a bit of a snob on the quiet, aren't you?" he said.

"Absolutely not. I just have an appreciation for the better things in life. And you, my boy, have a lot of catching up to do. Anyway, I came to say that the three of us are going to the town square tonight. There's nothing that barman downstairs doesn't know, and he says there's trouble brewing. You know how it is. Shout 'collaborator' and the results aren't pretty. In fact he took great delight in describing just how ugly it can get. We should go down there. Easy pickings."

Mitchell shook his head. "I don't think so. These people weren't soldiers, and half the time it's idiots with an axe to grind throwing around accusations and stoking it up. It doesn't feel right." He bit his lip at the last remark. He'd learnt not to suggest things like that with Herrick around, but the rebuke was mild.

"You and your picky appetite. The war is over, Mitchell. You need to accept that. Anyway, it doesn't matter tonight because I've found you an alternative way to spend your evening."

Mitchell raised his brows. Herrick had kept their small band close to him for so long the thought of being left alone was disconcerting. But exciting.

"It seems there are a few extras available off the bar menu, if you get my drift." Herrick enjoyed being cryptic. It could be bloody annoying, Mitchell thought, like being tested all the time.

But Mitchell knew exactly what he meant, and felt a low rush of anticipation thread through his body. He didn't want to acknowledge the intensity of the sudden need firing inside him. To touch and be touched. It felt far too personal - too human to share.

"Not really." he replied.

"How sweet." Herrick was good at sarcasm, too. "How long has it been, Mitchell?"

He shrugged noncommittally.

"Don't tell me you were one of the virgin soldiers! Although with things the way they are in Ireland I suppose it's possible. It can't be easy to get your girl to face eternal damnation for a quick tumble in the hay with you." He grinned broadly in Mitchell's direction. "I don't believe it. You're blushing."

With thoughts of Seth being dragged into this conversation later on Mitchell couldn't let it slide, though he knew he should. "No, no I'm not. I'm not blushing, and I did just fine thank you."

Herrick sat himself down in the armchair. Mitchell stopped fidgeting with the threads of the beadspread as a stillness settled over the room.

"I was teasing." Herrick's voice soothed. "I never thought to ask, did you leave behind a sweetheart?"

Taken by surprise by the directness Mitchell could see no reason left to lie. "Yes. I did. I'd known her for years, and then suddenly it was like I saw her for the first time and bam, that was it."

"What's her name?"

"It doesn't matter any more. I'm a deserter, I can't go back. The shame I'd bring on her."

"But you'd like to go back? Or maybe they'll come to find you instead."

"Of course I want to go back. The chance to see her one more time, even if it's just for a moment to say goodbye. But they won't come looking. My father's dead and Ma couldn't find the money to travel, even if she ever wanted to find a deserter…" his voice trailed off. "But that's another life."

"Indeed it is. So - get yourself cleaned up, and I'll see you in the bar at eight o'clock for a bite, right?"

* * *

 

 

Herrick sat in the corner of the bar nursing a glass of the strongest beer he'd ever tasted. The photograph turning in his hand was in such appalling condition it was difficult to see anything clearly. The lines where it had been folded, along with the stains from water, mud and blood obscured the image but he could make out enough to see she was pretty. Long dark hair, perhaps black; startlingly bright eyes even in the blurred image, blue at a guess; the plain skirt and blouse giving little away, but hinting at curves belying a slight frame. Yes, very pretty indeed. He imagined the local farmers commenting on how perfect they looked together. John and …

He turned the image over and made out the message, already badly faded: To my John. Come home to me. Your Máire.

He tucked the image back into his inside pocket. Mitchell had never commented on the papers missing from his uniform when he was recruited. He probably thought they'd been stolen as he lay dead. In a way, they had been. He had been so shocked when Herrick welcomed him into his new life by name. Herrick chuckled into his beer at the thought his recruit probably endowed him with vampiric powers, and never considered such a mundane explanation as theft.

With hindsight Herrick congratulated himself on taking the photograph along with the papers. Mitchell was showing signs of an alarmingly persistent streak of sentimentality - best not to indulge that.

He'd seen enough, it was time to put in his order. The barman listened very attentively and then smiled.

"You'll be needing our lovely Angel. I'll sort it for you."

* * *

 

 

She pushed the tendrils of black hair back from her face and planted her hands firmly on her hips.

"Tonight?" she pleaded, "Can't Jeanne do tonight? It's Sinterklaas and I really don't want to be working. Jeanne said she'd be happy to work." She stared at the bar owner, hopeful this would be enough of an argument.

"I'm sorry, Angel, I know I said you could be with Mats, but you see the man over there? Sandy hair, blue eyes?"

Angel looked across the bar to see a man in a soldier's uniform sipping a little too delicately from his beer glass. She shivered. What had her Mam always said - something about feeling someone walking over your grave.

"No, please. At least not tonight. Jeanne can speak English too, she'll be fine."

"Listen, girl. He's loaded. I've never seen a soldier with that amount of cash on him before; it made my eyes water. He'll pay a pretty packet, but it has to be you. I told him Jeanne is much prettier, and far more experienced," he winked, "but it didn't work. He'll only pay for you. I don't know why he's so insistent, but I'm not going to argue when we need every franc we can screw out of them and they've only taken the rooms for tonight. Come on girl, we've got to feed ourselves, you know."

Go on, make it sound as if I have a choice, Angel thought.

"But I get to go home straight after. You promise me?"

"Fair enough. I promise. He wants you at nine o'clock, so you've got three hours to make yourself as pretty as Jeanne."

"Huh! A British soldier straight from the front? Sounds like I'll be finished and home by half-past nine then. I'll get on with washing the glasses."

Soldiers. They all looked the same to her now, especially the young ones in their mud coloured uniforms, but something still pulled at her heart when she saw them with their haunted eyes and sodden feet. A lot of the time they wanted to talk about home at least as much as they wanted to fuck. Many of them were even younger than she was. The poor boys. What kinds of hell had they seen, and what horrors had they inflicted.

On the stroke of nine o'clock Angel smoothed down her dress, checked her hair was under some kind of control and pinched her cheeks to add the pinkness girls like her were expected to have. One thing she'd learnt early on was that putting a brave face on it sometimes made you feel brave.

One last shuddering breath and then she pushed the door from the hallway into the bar. The sandy haired soldier had reclaimed the same chair in the corner where he was sitting with a younger man, also in uniform. Four empty plates and too many beer glasses sat in front of them. Dipping her head she walked across the bar trying to attract as little attention as possible. The man stood, welcoming her politely and gesturing towards an empty chair next to his.

"Here, sit down my dear. Can I order you a drink? It would be my pleasure."

"No thank you sir, I'm fine." she replied, matching his courtesy.

The other soldier turned to face her.

"Hello." was all he said.

She had been wrong. They didn't all look the same. The young man's face was strong, dark and striking with short nearly-black hair parted at the side and brushed back away from his face. The lines of his jaw and cheekbones sculpted the face into something almost beautiful, but it was the eyes that held her attention as she sat opposite him.

His eyes were a soft brown; so warm, she thought. Then he shifted slightly into the light from the wall lamp and subtle flecks of amber and green shot through them. Complex layers of colours and light. She tilted her head, subconsciously trying to fix the colour - hazel perhaps, or maybe not.

Memories came flooding back unbidden. Long buried memories of the basket banging her legs as she carried hazelnuts back to the house at the end of the lane. Her grandmother made chocolates before the war. Chocolates good enough to be sold in the upmarket shops of Bruges and Brussels, and she could remember afternoons sitting at the table watching enthralled as grandmother repeatedly spread out the melted chocolate on the marble worktop, tempering it until it shone. She felt a stab cut through the numbness deep inside her. That's what she should be doing now, not sitting in a cheap bar whoring herself to damaged strangers; but then like so many others she'd lost her future, her family and everything else in this godawful war. It's not as if there were any choices left for her now.

A little laugh punctured the air and broke her foolishness.  
"Angel, my dear, I'm going to leave you to take good care of my Sergeant here. Be careful now, he can be a bit of a handful."  
The blue-eyed man continued to find something highly amusing as he patted her shoulder and picked up his overcoat.

"Enjoy yourselves, children."

She watched him leave with one last glance in their direction as the bar door closed behind him. In truth she wanted to make sure he really was gone.

When she turned round she found her sergeant leaning back with his arms crossed and the start of a smile raising the corner of his mouth. "I hope you don't mind." he said. He even sounded as if he meant it. His nervousness wiped away her own.

"No, no I don't mind at all." She probably shouldn't have laughed in relief as she said that, but he didn't seem to notice and leant forward to lift a stray lock of her black hair and tuck it behind her ear. The gentle familiarity shocked her more than any of the sudden gropes she was becoming used to.

"Do you want to talk, or would you prefer to go upstairs?" she asked, and waited for his eyes to open a little wider and his pupils dilate. They were all the same in the end.

His hand hovered for a second as he lowered it to take hold of his drink. "Upstairs." he said, not taking his eyes from the depths. Then he drained the glass.

She stood and her hand reached out for his. "So come with me."

* * *

 

 

His shoulders and the muscles in his arms were tense and hard beneath her hands as she eased the jacket from his shoulders. Throwing it across the back of the old armchair she saw the mirror opposite the bed covered with a grubby length of lace. She smiled at him then, stroking up and down his arms. He looked so young, so lost. 

"There's really no need to feel shy, I promise".

She meant to tease him and make him smile at her in return, but judging by the way he hung back and even edged towards the door maybe he really was that shy. It didn't look as if he was going to make a move any time soon. What was his problem? Perhaps the war had left him injured or incapable. That didn't worry her any more. She'd seen enough terrible things in the past couple of years.

Leading him to the edge of the bed she released his hand and let him sit.

"We can talk a little if you'd like?" she asked again, but he shook his head.

Kneeling before him she rested her hands at the top of his thighs and looked up into those eyes. A veil had come down and a small frown troubled the edge of his dark brows. Her fingers automatically started to reach for the buttons of his trousers, and there was a moment of relief when she felt the obvious hard line of his cock through the fabric just under the brush of her fingers. Perhaps she would be home before nine thirty after all. Her next move was always choreographed to perfection - the usual routine - the curl of her hand, dip of her head, touch of her mouth. But today she paused. Shifting upwards she put her hands to his face, tracing soft fingertips across the frown. She heard him exhale a sigh as his eyes fluttered closed.

"It's alright. It's all alright." her voice soothed as her hands began stroking back his hair, "you're safe here."

"So you're an angel, then." She leant down closer to hear his strained whisper above the hum from the bar below.

"You don't have to call me that, you can call me whatever you want. I can be whoever you need."

His arms reached around her then and pulled her down hard onto the bed beside him. Heat rushed in between them. His hands were searching everywhere, stroking and scratching as he helped her remove her dress and underwear with tearing haste. She struggled to do the same for him, which was nearly impossible as he wouldn't stop caressing her skin.

His mouth chased round her body: her temple, the side of her neck, inside of her wrist, behind her knees, in the crease of her thighs. When she pulled him up he turned his face away from hers, burying it in her hair. As she rolled her hips to meet him she heard him murmuring curses and profanities like prayers. And something else; a name perhaps, a little like her own but foreign-sounding, over and over and over.

Her fingernails scraped down his skin, breath rasping as she dug into his shoulder blades to pull him even closer. A groan escaped from deep within him and she felt a shudder spiral through his whole frame. Then a quick, sharp pain pierced her neck. Before her cry could escape she felt the pain recede, replaced by soothing licks of his tongue. God. What was that? What the hell was he doing to her?

Angel brought her hands round to push at his shoulders and ease his head back from her neck.

And looked into unfathomable eyes, as black and hard as jet, and empty. For a moment the universe shuddered to a halt and she knew without any doubt that she was looking her own death in the eye.

As the scream started to rise in her throat he buried himself deeper still, lowering his lips back to her neck. This time the pain ripped into her and his mouth was hard as it sucked at her. Her hands pulled and scratched but his strength held her to him as she felt the jet black emptiness engulf her.

* * *

 

"I cleaned up what I could, but they're gonna know straight away." Mitchell circled the bare bedroom as Seth started to lift the sheet from the body laid straight on the bed. Mitchell caught the look he threw him. Christ - was that admiration?

"Don't touch her." His voice was diamond hard and Seth dropped the sheet, raising his hands and stepping back.

"Alright, alright."

"Nothing to worry about." Herrick said without a trace of concern in his voice, "I've spoken to the bar owner and once he got over his insurmountable grief he accepted a tidy pay off which will set him up nicely. Never, ever underestimate human mendacity even in the most genial guises.

"As far as he's concerned a soldier gets carried away and accidentally throttles a whore. It's not unknown and he doesn't want any trouble coming to his door. We get rid of the body and he'll be vague about us and our whereabouts if asked. It's useful that for some bizarre reason he thinks you're Scottish. Can you believe that?

"Disposal needs to be quick. I say we take her down to the square. Cut off her hair and leave her there and they'll assume she's a collaborator who met the wrong crowd. Though given those injuries it might be prudent to burn her as well."

"Jesus! No!" Mitchell stood between the bed and Herrick. "I mean… w- we can't treat her like that."

"Listen to yourself." Herrick's voice dropped lower and harder. "'Can't treat her like that'? Mitchell, you putting a dress back on her doesn't disguise the fact that you lost all control. It's bloody obvious. How long did you go on biting, trying to get just a little more? If she's found looking like this the 'accidentally throttled' story goes out of the window and they will hunt you down, pay-off or no pay-off."

Mitchell slumped into the old armchair, hands clamped over his face.

"Smithy is bringing the truck round. Seth, you get whatever her name was wrapped and down the back steps. The back of the church by the river will be fine. Oh and Seth, don't be an idiot, take away the sheet, don't just leave her wrapped in it."

"She was called Angel," Mitchell said at Seth's back as he staggered through the door.

Herrick snorted. "How naive are you, son. They don't give you their real names."

When they were alone Herrick sat on the bed and waited for Mitchell to drop his hands.

"I'm going to ask you something. It won't be easy. Everything you've been taught will tell you what the answer is. I don't want to hear that. I want you to answer, you as you are now. Can you do that?"

Numbed to the core Mitchell nodded.

"Did you enjoy it?"

It took a long time for the answer to come.

"Yes." he whispered.

"Are you already thinking about how good it will feel the next time?"

Mitchell didn't answer, he stared at Herrick's dead blue eyes.

"Do I take take that as a 'yes', then? Get your bag. We leave through the front door."

* * *

 

 

As they walked through the bar towards the door, it swung open and an older woman gripping the hand of a little boy rushed through. With no apology for brushing past Herrick she headed straight to the barman cleaning glasses.

"His mum didn't come home last night. Poor boy was waiting for hours for her to come, and I know she would have. She'd been saving for weeks to buy that toy for Sinterklaas there's no way she would have missed giving it to him. Where is she? Can I go and check upstairs? Mats, you sit there for a minute sweetie, I'll be right back."

The lady and barman disappeared through the door to the hallway. Mitchell stood rooted to the spot. His face set hard.

"Mitchell, with me, now." Herrick hissed, holding the door open.

Instead Mitchell walked to where the boy sat swinging his legs, clutching a spinning top between his fingers. He crouched down.

"That's a wonderful top. Did your mother give it to you?" The boy looked up through wary brows, then nodded.

"You understand English?" Mitchell asked.

"Yes I do." the boy replied proudly. "My grandfather was from there before he died and Mummy teaches me every day."

"She sounds like a special lady. What's her name?"

"It's Marianne."

"Marianne. That's a pretty name. A kind name. Promise me you'll always be proud of her."

The boy looked confused, but he nodded again. "I promise."

"Now!" Herrick's patience was worn down to breaking point. Mitchell stood and walked out through the door with a long stride, not looking back.

Herrick scrambled a bit to catch up with him. "What was all that about? What did you say to him?"

"It's not important."

"As you please. We go left here, the others will pick us up on the road. So. Where shall we go next, soldier?"

Mitchell didn't stop walking. "You knew, didn't you."

"Knew what exactly?" Mitchell caught a note of surprise in the question. What was it Herrick was worried about? He shrugged the thought away.

"You knew what would happen."

Herrick sighed. "Well my boy, I hate to break the news, but you are a vampire. Hold out your hands."

Without breaking his stride he did so.

"See. They're not shaking at all. You'll be fine."

Maybe my hands aren't shaking, Mitchell thought, but I am very afraid.


	3. Forty Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1922\. London. Welcome to sinful, seedy Soho.

_There is a moment of such beauty there are no words to describe it._

_Every heartbeat is the same and yet every heartbeat is unique. I've learnt that as I've butchered my way into my new life but it still amazes me every time. I thought it would pall after a while, you know, that the blood would become just food, nothing but fuel to keep this impossible body moving, but it never does. The experience is always as exciting as it was the real first time in the arms of an angel in a quiet Belgian bedroom._

_I love it._

_Every night I see Marianne's sky blue eyes looking up into the vampire's and I know there's no way out. I can never lay down this weapon. How naive was I that night, thinking I could feed on the sensation and not feed on her. Fucking idiot. Her arousal turning to terror and the answering race of her heartbeat beneath me - Christ, she had no chance, and neither did I. I didn't even try to spare her the fear and the pain. I fed on that too, so I'm a monster as well as a coward._

_I want it._

_I listen to Herrick talking on and on about the aroma, the taste and the consistency and cringe at the pretentiousness of it all. I don't get it. Why bother to pretend blood is like wine when it's not. It's nothing like._

_Good Catholic boy that I was, I still never really bought the whole wine as blood lesson, and I definitely don't now. There is no salvation in blood._

_I guess a part of me understands the need to find a language we can use, but I don't want to share myself and I don't want to go over every bloody detail. Herrick wants me to, but I just can't. Since Marianne it's like he's been trying to crawl under my skin. After every feed he tries to peel back a little bit more of me. 'How sweet was she? Did he taste like the shit he's been talking all night? He was off his head on cocaine, you must have felt quite a hit yourself.' On and on._

_I know he's just looking out for me and helping me find my way through this new life, but sometimes it feels like it's all a fuckin' test. I never liked being boxed in so I suppose this life hasn't changed me that much really._

_Jesus! That can't be true._

_Anyway, I'm getting better at the half-truths to keep Herrick from picking away at me, but I know he wants something more. Why, I dunno. I give him easy answers about the pleasure which is always what he likes to hear, but that's only the surface. Everything beneath the mask is mine and I'm holding it close._

_So, I do this thing. I have to - it is becoming all I am._

_I need it._

_I live for the beauty. I should be able to describe it given the amount of time I spend aching to feel it again, but it's too elusive to put into words._

_I find it in that exquisite moment just before the beat. It nestles there, held still in the anticipation as the chamber of the heart fills with blood before it beats its release. Then the heart contracts and squeezes like a fist and I feel the propulsion of blood just as it prepares to fill again. Their fear heightens the sensation to an unbearable pitch — so does their excitement, if I'm in control enough to wait for it, which is hard but I'm learning how. If I hold on and hold on I can savour so much more than a quick kill can ever give._

_I crave it._

_Is there anything left of me? I'd ask Herrick, but I'm scared of the answer_.

* * *

 

**Soho, London 1922**

Mitchell sat at the table, picking at the embroidery around the edge of a napkin. He only looked up at the clink of champagne glasses being refilled and stirred enough to reach out for his. He paused to tip the edge of the glass towards Herrick lounging opposite. "Cheers." 

"Bottoms up. Again." Herrick smoothed down slicked back hair and let out a sigh of absolute satisfaction. "So what do you think? This is much more like it, huh? All that skulking around in dark foreign alleys gets a man down after a while. You need to see a bit more of your world my boy, and The 44 Club is most definitely the place for that."

Being admitted to the exclusive back room had been a relief for Mitchell. The heaving press of humanity assaulting all his senses in the dancehall earlier had strung out his self-control to a dangerous pitch. The noise of the jazz band and the heavy pall of smoke hanging over the dancers sent his blood stinging with need and he had been sorely tempted to head for the exit despite Herrick's pleasure at being there. This room was different. He found the muffled quiet soothed him. The small tables wearing crisp white linen, thick walls of buttoned red leather, and shifting light thrown by the chandeliers, these all felt comforting somehow. He could breathe again here.

Leaning back in his chair he picked up a little match book left on the table and slotted another cigarette between his lips. A swirl of well-heeled patrons danced slowly before him to the sound of a piano. His head tilted back as he took a long drag of nicotine. "Ah, I get it now. So how many people in here are vampires? I s'pose I should be able to tell, but from a distance everyone just looks like supper." His voice was low, soft, and Herrick moved his chair a little closer.

"No reason why you should know. There are only around half a dozen in tonight, but there'll be more when I introduce you formally to our little family later. I wanted you to get your bearings first - and to see how you scrubbed up in a dinner jacket. There'll be important people in here at the weekend and we can't have you showing me up."

"Right." Mitchell ignored the scratch of irritation he felt at the remark. "So do I pass muster?"

"Surprisingly well - if you would stop fiddling with your tie." Herrick upended their second bottle of champagne into the ice bucket as a sign for the waiter to bring another, and then gave a little wink. "Excuse me for a moment." He threaded a path across the room until he could make a sharp bow in front of an aristocratic grande dame before leading her onto the small dance floor. 

Well, well, it turned out Herrick knew his way around a waltz. Thank god for that, Mitchell thought, there was only so long he could pretend to be interested in bank rates and Bristol property.

Free at last, he picked up his glass and prowled the edge of the tables, glad to be moving. A bleached blonde gestured at him with a too-bright smile, hand smoothing down a violent red dress. He shook his head and moved in the opposite direction without another glance. No way would he risk getting close tonight in such a public place. It was all he could do to push the ache of need in his blood back below the surface of his skin. There had been too many heartbeats whispering tonight. 

Instead he weaved a path over to the piano player. The stern looking young man had been staring on and off all evening. Was the music man giving him the come-on? If so it was hardly unusual, though the men often tried to back off later - sometimes even before it was too late.

"You taking requests?" Mitchell put his glass down on the piano.

"If you like. What do you fancy?"

"Nothing these toffs would want to hear. How about 'It's A Long Way to Tipperary'?"

The pianist kept up his playing, appraising him with a practised eye. Mitchell shuffled as a chill hit the back of his neck - this man saw too much.

"'Up to mighty London came an Irishman one day.' That's very fitting. Don't tell me you're actually from Tipperary! Wonderful! We could get the whole room to join in with you."

"No, of course I'm not." A reluctant smile raised the corner of his mouth. "It's, ah, miles away from my home, and if I sing believe me we'll clear the dance floor in seconds."

"But you want to go back — somewhere? Back to what? 'To the sweetest girl' maybe?" He chuckled not unkindly at Mitchell's discomfort. "Don't worry, you really don't have to answer that. I know you're William Herrick's latest recruit, I just didn't realise it was so recent. To be taken from the trenches to… well, you can decide for yourself what this life is. Your head's still spinning? It's good to meet you. So does this mean Herrick's finally ditched his pet weasel?"

Mitchell snorted, wiping away the spray of champagne from the piano lid with his sleeve. "You obviously know Seth. No, I'm afraid not, he's been sent off west to get something ready. Property stuff. Ach, you know what, I don't give a shit what the weasel is up to as long as he's not following me around any more. So you're like us, then?"

"Nicely put. Yes, I'm like you, is that why you came over?"

"No, I didn't realise. To be honest you kept catching my eye and I thought you were, well, sort of... interested. I guess I misinterpreted the interest."

"Not entirely, doll," came an amused voice from across the piano. "I'm sure he's very interested, but I have an unfair advantage. You'll want to kiss me, not him."

Mitchell had never seen a woman drape herself over a piano before. He'd heard the expression of course, but this woman was actually managing to do it, like silk. An explosion in his brain told him she was right - he did want to kiss her, and a whole lot more, now, right here, on the piano for Christ's sake.

She laughed and unfurled herself, running her hand over the pianist's shoulders as she walked past him to stand too close to Mitchell.

"I love your face," she said, "especially with that look on it. All concentration and heat. It's nice. Play something smooth and slow, Maestro sweetie, this man is going to dance."

As soon as he held her for the dance he knew there was no heartbeat to torment him. Still trying to decide whether he was disappointed or relieved, he concentrated on getting round the floor without mangling her feet.

"I'm sorry, I really don't dance."

"Funny. I guessed. Next time I'll remember to wear steel-toed shoes. But my god, you can move. Dancing's easy, you need to relax and let me teach you. You know, I think Kate is really going to like you."

"Good, glad to hear it." He managed a relatively smooth change in direction. "So anyway, who's Kate? Is she head vampire around here?"

He enjoyed the sound of her laughter. "William does like to keep people in the dark, doesn't he. Little bits of information as and when he chooses, drip, drip, drip. No. Kate isn't even one of us, but we owe her plenty. She owns this place - The 44. I thought you might have heard about her because she was quite famous in Ireland before she left to start up here. She'll love to hear your accent."

Mitchell shook his head. "No. Famous for what? Setting up vampire clubs doesn't sound like something to be famous for. Even in Ireland."

"I'm afraid you'll be shocked, but…." she lowered her voice to a whisper so that Mitchell had to lean his head down to catch her words and she lifted her face until her lips brushed against his ear. "She was the first woman in Ireland ever to ride a bicycle. Apparently."

A laugh exploded from Mitchell which he tried and failed to stifle as the other dancers looked at the two of them with blatant curiosity. Unable to speak, Mitchell pulled her tighter and concentrated on finding his steps again, although his shoulders continued to shake.

His partner went quiet for a few minutes, swaying Mitchell across the floor until he started to pick up the rhythm once more. Catching Herrick's raised eyebrow on the way past only made him more determined to get through this with his dignity intact. He would not be paraded as if he was some kind of second-class country…

"You know, every time someone passes close to you, you tense up." She interrupted his thoughts. "How can I teach you to dance properly when you are so bloody distracted. Tell me, just how hungry are you?"

Christ, where had that come from? Was he really so easy to read? 

"It's been a while."

"Really? That's not the sort of thing William's been saying about you. I heard you started out by tearing apart a dozen or more armed men in a few minutes. It left a bit of an impression, and he's not easily impressed. So why has it been a while, have you not found an opportunity in Soho? I find that impossible to believe."

"No reason. I'm fine."

"Of course you are." She stopped dancing and reached a hand up to his cheek for a moment before leading him to the edge of the dancefloor. "Well after all this very accomplished dancing I'm peckish, so why don't we move on from champagne and find something more... sustaining."

"What here? Now?"

"Why do you think we're here? Here is perfect. Just one rule, doll, no mess. Can you manage to do that?"

"I've never had to try before. What do you think?"

"I've been wondering about that. The hunger is written all over you, it's like you're screaming. But who knows. Keep looking at me and let's see where this leads."

* * *

 

"So. The game's on, who should we invite to dance?" she asked.

Mitchell forced his eyes to scan the room without haste or panic. Her challenge was clear enough: was he up to this. "The couple over there - red-faced older man; woman on his arm, red dress, platinum blonde, well-preserved."

Her hand stroked down his back. "You have a predator's instinct, Mitchell. Shall we find out if you're right? Let's see if they are ready to play."

Mitchell felt a growing disgust churn in the pit of his stomach at how easy it was. A hardly subtle offer of cocaine and sex and the couple practically ran towards their deaths. The blonde, Maisie she said, threaded her arm through Mitchell's and pressed her head against his shoulder as they followed their partners to continue their dance in the members' only rest room.

Mitchell watched intently as his guide allowed the man to pull her in closer. As her hands reached around his shoulders and the man leant in for his kiss, Mitchell drew the blonde to him, but his eyes never left those of his companion. He watched fascinated as scalpel sharp fangs grew delicately between red lips, and as she teased them down the man's neck for a long moment. Copying her movements, he heard Maisie groan under the sharp contact. The woman smiled across at Mitchell before precisely positioning her fangs at the edge of the jugular. Unconscious of Maisie's hands moving to stroke him, Mitchell eyes were fixed, hypnotised, as the woman eased the fangs through skin. It took no time for the man to fall still in her grip. She let him drop to the floor, then stepped over the body to reach Mitchell as he held the blonde tight - a hand gripped across her mouth and his arm pinning her back against his chest. The woman smiled and the sight of sharp teeth glistening red between lipsticked lips sent a shudder down Mitchell's spine.

She lifted her finger to touch Maisie's throat. "Just here. If the angle is too sharp there'll be blood everywhere. Yes, that's it, you've got it. Not too much pressure to begin with, keep looking at me and I'll tell you when to stop." He did.

"Talent. I knew it." She ran her fingers down the front of his shirt, "you see, I count three drops." She brought her fingers back up to her mouth. 

His body still thrumming with the thrill he wanted to devour her, but instead put a hand under her chin to tilt her head up. 

"You've spilt a bit too." And he licked the corner of her mouth.

He smiled to feel her tense. Ah Jesus, she was more exciting like this - up close, flushed, and so much less perfectly groomed than before. Chestnut hair falling across blue eyes, a dusting of freckles he hadn't noticed before, the low cut of her peacock green dress presenting smooth white skin. Stepping over the bodies he backed her up until he'd leant her against the white leather-lined wall. Her hands snaked into his hair, the start of dark curls sliding over her fingers. A thigh lifted to press against his hip as his weight pushed against her, and a stilettoed heel scraped at his calf as she tilted her body up to match his. He savoured the taste of metal and iron lingering on her tongue and his kiss took on an edge of frenzy.

She eased him back. "Here? I don't think so."

"Perhaps you'd prefer the top of the piano." he retorted, hearing his frustration bleed through. As he pulled away his fingers drew across the curves above the cut of her dress. Inviting her? Insulting her? Provoking her? He wasn't sure.

"Actually I think I would like that very much indeed. But what on earth makes you think I'd want it to be with you? You're high, and I expect a bit more than an amateurish grope against the bathroom wall after a cheap snack, thank you." 

Before Mitchell could pull his racing thoughts together, she was already opening the door. She paused. "Actually I'd like to introduce you to my friend. He isn't in a rush to see William again, but I think he'll find you interesting."

"When will I see you again? Soon?"

"Am I your little bit of unfinished business then?" Her eyes flicked over his face, the reply hanging in the balance. "Who knows, doll. It's been fun."

* * *

 

"I see you and Ellie have struck up a productive friendship." The piano player nodded across to where three waiters carrying sheets and sacks unlocked the door to the bathroom, closing it emphatically behind them. Mitchell gripped the stem of his glass hard enough to risk breaking it. Shit, this place catered for everything. Despite all the expensive leather, linen and lights it was just as filthy as the dark alleys and cheap bars he'd left on the other side of the Channel.

"Ellie, pretty name." He leant over the piano and picked up a cigarette left languishing in the ashtray. "She said something about her friend and Herrick. I wasn't listening. What's that all about?"

"You don't know? But you're going to be the prize exhibit. Herrick's fresh Irish recruit with a beautiful face and a taste for the game. Ivan's not here tonight, he can't be bothered, but my guess is that Ellie will be out to change his mind."

"By friend she means…?"

"Well, boyfriend sounds strange applied to Ivan. Oh dear, you've gone pale. Don't worry, you can screw her all you like."

"I haven't… We didn't..."

"Not yet maybe." Mitchell felt a hand touch his sleeve and turned to see the pianist's dark eyes looking earnestly into his own. "But I'm not so sure you should come back here. Make an excuse. Stay away."

There it was again — the chill on the back of his neck.

* * *

 

Ellie sat alone in the near-darkness of the corner of the club, playing with a glass of champagne she didn't want to drink as the last of the dancers swayed on the dance floor. With her shoes kicked off, feet curled up underneath her and her head leaning on the cushioned back she felt invisible.

The evening had gone as expected of course, but scratching at the back of her mind she felt… what was it? It was a sensation she couldn't quite put her finger on. Ivan always told her to trust her intuition, which was one reason he'd sent her tonight. 'If you pay enough attention they're always predictable'. 

Having a bit of fun at the expense of Herrick's latest recruit was almost a tradition now. She only had to read their weaknesses or predelictions and as Ivan said the rest was always predictable. The last one had been a violent idiot, only interested in the fight. She'd barely managed to hide her amusement until her teasing had exposed a layer of viciousness that made it clear why Herrick chose to keep him around. Until he'd stepped on the land mine, of course.

The Irishman was supposed to have more potential. Born drenched in violence. Herrick had been preparing the ground for months, spreading his battle stories ahead of him. She'd seen for herself that this Mitchell could be an efficient predator, all wrapped up in a pretty enough package and with a gift for seduction he didn't even recognise in himself yet. So why did it feel like something was hovering just beyond her reach. Whatever it was, it was an irritation that wouldn't let go.

Damn. This one was going to be inconvenient.


	4. Shrapnel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here. Have a few thousand words of Ivan exposition-ing like crazy.  
> Because, well, Ivan.

 

 

It was a beautiful day. One of those unexpected London days where a sudden burst of sunshine catches the city off guard. The birds were still singing late into the afternoon, their songs arguing with the cacophony of buses, car horns and horses' hooves. Even the rundown pubs did their bit, windows reflecting sunlight down onto the grassy squares where people jostled in unsuitable clothes to bask in the warmth.

Yes, even grubby, seedy, sinful old Soho shone on days like this.

'Which is why I'm sitting here, huddled in the dark, with the left-over stench of last night's sweaty crowd.' He chuckled, low and throaty, at the thought.

Usually it would have pissed him off. It was another of those endless little reminders of the separateness of his world. Funny how it was always the insignificant things that crushed the breath from his body. Stupid things - a snatched piece of music, a child's laugh, a kiss on the cheek, or the growl of a dog as he passed it on the street. Christ, sometimes he even caught himself longing for the familiar sting of the need for new blood singing in his veins again. At least then he knew exactly what he was.

But not today. Today, sitting here huddled in the dark made him laugh.

"What? What's so funny, doll?"

He lent his head over, bringing it closer to the young woman sitting at his side, drawing her into a secret. "Shhh darlin', you'll disturb the other patrons." He whispered. Loudly.

Ellie twisted a cigarette case in her fingers as she craned her neck to examine the nearly deserted cinema seats with exaggerated concern. "Of course Mitchell, I see what you mean." She settled back in her seat to focus directly on him. "What's got into you? You're in a ridiculously good mood."

"Can you blame me? Y'see it's not every day you come knocking on my door inviting me to join you for an afternoon of hedonism and pleasure and…"

Ellie snorted and threw up her hands in mock surrender.

"Alright, alright, stop, I get it. You're still smarting from the other night." If she thought that would throw him into a less sunny mood she was wrong.

"Yeah, well, what can I say. You were very, erm, Theda Bara, sweetheart." She glimpsed clouded eyes dropping away and his mouth moved just a little closer to her ear. "And so here we are again. Pity there's no piano. Or bathroom wall."

Her own eyes flickered fractionally wider. Who did he think he was? Upstart! Did he know how bloody … annoying that assumption was? He'd spent too long reeling in human girls. They were so easily impressed by a soft accent and come to bed eyes. Poor, deluded creatures. Perhaps it was time she spoke to Emmeline again, hell, even vampires should be dragged into the twentieth century however much the Old Ones liked to keep things conveniently feudal.

But before she could pull her thoughts back together and summon up a suitably damning response he had shifted backwards, shaking his head with a quiet "ah, Jesus, sorry" under his breath.

"You know, you really need to show your elders and betters more respect." She said, more half-heartedly than intended, the annoyance draining further away as his eyebrow quirked up at her soft rebuke.

"Right. That was…" he ran a hand back through his hair. "You know how it is. It's all… kind of… I dunno… becoming a habit."

"Forget it, doll. What a wonderful idea of yours to duck into The Electric." She wrinkled her nose to make sure he got the message.

"It's alright for you, Ellie, that pretty hat isn't there just to be pretty, is it. I'm tired of squinting in the shadows. Anyways," he nodded towards the screen, "this could be fun."

"You need a decent fedora. Ivan has plenty. But remember next time I get to choose what we see. Like tonight's bill. Did you see it? 'Cocaine - How Girls Become Dope Fiends!' I bet there'll be high society dames and opium dens and everything. Now that really does sound funny."

She dismissed the unexpected scratch of disappointment when Mitchell didn't take the bait, instead he settled back in his seat as the screen flickered into light.

Ellie didn't pay too much attention to the screen. Oh it was funny enough with the spiralling farce and the fat guy getting increasingly exasperated and the skinny guy scratching the top of his head and screwing up his face. But it was more fascinating to watch the layers of reserve and tension fall away from Mitchell's face. God, he looked so young. She remembered his laugh from the other night at the Club, his head thrown back, full-throated and irresistible, and she felt it thread through her again as he laughed at some manic antic playing out in front of him. Without thinking she leant into his side and he glanced down. His smile engulfed her in generous warmth.

She pulled upright, drawing away as if scalded, and folded her arms with a snap. She watched with glazed eyes fixed straight ahead. Be careful, she berated herself. Whatever he was he was no innocent. No fool unknowingly waiting for her to sink her teeth into his beautifully inviting neck. Ivan had told her the stories that were circulating. Stories about him tearing apart companies of soldiers and Belgian prostitutes. Stories of courting danger and explosive violence. Ivan didn't believe half of them - Herrick's walking propaganda pamphlet, he said - she wasn't so sure.

Dusk was falling when they left The Electric. Mitchell offered his arm with that smile still lingering on his face. Ellie hoped he hadn't noticed her hesitation in accepting it.

* * *

 

 

Standing at the window above the doors for warehouse deliveries gave a good view down the narrow backstreet, even in the fading light. Ivan took a sip from his glass as he watched the two figures make their way arm in arm. The Irishman was half a foot taller than Ellie despite her heels, though he was leaner and much less imposing than the stories would suggest. Ivan saw Herrick's soldier angling his body towards his companion, but Ellie was stepping minutely to the side and drawing her arm a little looser from his. Ivan turned his back on the view. So the Irishman was a predator and Ellie wasn't playing the game his way. Good girl.

She'd come home from the Club in the wee hours the other night, and curled up next to him on the bed. He'd asked, of course, but she'd lacked her usual incisiveness. Mitchell was 'complicated', apparently. This was an overused phrase in his view. It usually didn't mean that at all, it simply meant 'pretty - but a bastard'.

His black hair was slickly immaculate as ever as he smoothed his hands back over it and ran a finger across the narrow moustache. Footsteps clanged on the metal staircase and he looked up as the door opened and Ellie showed Mitchell in.

Ghosts talk about auras. That was another thing Ivan privately thought fanciful rubbish, it was just about paying attention to the details in front of you. But he didn't doubt that people radiate energies and leave echoes in their wake, even vampires. Herrick's men didn't have a good record with him. Recruit Smithy with his air of unfocused violence, acolyte Seth with his arrogance built on the shaky foundation of stupidity. He'd expected more of the same. Vampires tend to have patterns, a 'type'. But it seemed Herrick had either got bored and changed tack, or he'd made a monumental recruiting error. Perhaps it was both. He made a mental note to have a little chat with Herrick; it could be amusing to find out.

Ellie was doing the introductions and Mitchell didn't flinch before the caustic eyes, stepping forward with his hand outstretched.

"Pleased to meet you, sir. I wasn't expecting this so I should warn you I don't know if there's a protocol for meeting an Old One."

Ivan shook the hand offered and inclined his head formally. "This will do fine for now, Mr. Mitchell. The customary virgin sacrifice can always be offered later."

Mitchell paused for a moment, a line of concentration appearing between his brows. "There aren't too many virgins in Soho I reckon, but I'll see what I can rustle up."

Ivan resisted the itch to smile back. "Good." He said briskly turning on his heel to join Ellie who had thrown her hat and bag onto the table and was already making her way towards the drinks cabinet in the corner of the room. Mitchell remained on the spot.

"At ease, soldier. Come and join us. So. You were on the Western Front. Ellie and I headed east. A bit of a mistake that, it was too bloody cold. I preferred the Boer War, you know, a better climate and much better food. How was your war?"

Mitchell fingered the glass of whiskey Ellie handed to him, turning it round and round in his hands. "Ah you know. Same old story. I died."

It was clear this subject was closed.

"But you found your way to Soho in the end. How are you enjoying it here in Blighty?"

Mitchell's shoulders hunched an inch as he shrugged off the question. "It's fine, until I open my mouth of course. Y'know, sometimes I think it would be easier if I had 'vampire' tattooed across my fuckin' forehead compared to having my accent." He gave a breezy laugh. "But it's different here, I like it. Soho doesn't care about stuff like that, and it definitely has its attractions."

"All roads lead here, it seems. There are more vampires per square mile here than anywhere outside Venice." Ivan raised his glass and they tapped them together. "Bottoms up. I'm told Kate is arranging a reception at the Club to welcome your man Herrick back. Ellie thought it a good idea for you to meet a friendly face beforehand. If I'm honest they are terribly tedious affairs. The introductions, the newcomer's obligatory kill, the drinks all-round. So predictable. Hopefully Herrick and Kate will conjure up something a bit more entertaining for all our sakes."

He watched as Mitchell downed the drink in one gulp. "Thirsty? You and Ellie took your time getting here, so I'd assumed you'd eaten out."

The oddly furtive glance that passed between Ellie and Mitchell was too easy to catch. Not feeding together then. But if that was the case then they had indulged some other appetites instead. It was strange he hadn't picked up on that earlier. True, Ellie had spotted Mitchell's weakness easily enough and by her account he'd responded very enthusiastically. But then she'd also complained that he was too easy, and she'd enjoyed putting him back in his place. So maybe it was something else they'd been sharing. Ivan was at a loss to guess what it could have been.

He liked that - it had been a long time since Ellie had surprised him.

Ellie refilled Mitchell's glass. "Completely the opposite actually." she said. "I've been explaining that with a large community in one place we have to be more careful. Soho can disappear almost as many bodies as the East End - and that is a lot - but even here there are limits."

Mitchell took a more measured sip. "Feed, leave no witnesses, cover your tracks, move on fast. That's been working fine for us. So how do you manage it? The not having to move on I mean, sir."

"Spoken like a soldier. Call me Ivan." He waved at one of the armchairs. "Take a seat. There's an infrastructure in place, of course. Jobs people do clearing up and sorting out towering piles of paperwork. I'm surprised you don't know more about this seeing it's one of Herrick's strengths. In fact, I think it's partly why Hetty recruited him in the first place. He was a legal clerk, you know, so he knew exactly how to work the system and oil the wheels in all the right places. Such attention to detail, that man, very talented and so very useful."

Mitchell was leaning forward in the chair now, taking in every scrap of information Ivan cared to toss his way. "Until he decided he didn't want to be a servant of the system any more?" he ventured.

"Exactly. William Herrick is young and has ambition." Ivan considered saying more, but reminded himself that Mitchell was Herrick's man. "Think yourself lucky, if he hadn't embarked on a new path you'd be one of the recruits clearing up. How good are your cleaning skills, I wonder."

"Like the men who cleared up the bathroom last night?" Mitchell looked over at Ellie, who nodded. He kept his eyes on her for a second longer than necessary. "Honestly? I think I prefer being on the other side of the action. It's more entertaining."

Ivan patted Mitchell's shoulder. "Oh I agree." he chuckled.

There was no need for him to say any more, after all this recruit was Herrick's responsibility, but he made a decision that surprised himself. "There's more to it of course." he continued carefully, calibrating Mitchell's response. He moved back to the drinks cabinet as he spoke. "There are ways of keeping us at the edge of the eye. If humans can't pin us down under one of their microscopes, then we can't exist. They are so wilful in their need to deny us. We exist there, flickering at the fringes of their vision. And so we find alternatives, little tricks and fixes to help maintain the masquerade. "

"Huh!" Mitchell downed another slug of whiskey, and fixed his gaze on the liquid left swilling round the glass. "I know all about the alternatives and they're lies. Nothing works, at least not for me." His quiet mutter was to himself.

Ivan felt a tremor shimmer across the room, like a sudden change in gaslight. If there was such a thing as an aura, then Mitchell's was shifting, intensifying. There was a palpable hunger in the room now and Ivan felt his own senses starting to wake up in response. Mitchell's calmness was barely masking something hidden. Ivan couldn't quite reach it. Rage, maybe, or confusion. Perhaps after five years of killing and running the idea of any other way was too disorientating to grasp. Whatever it was, Ivan could feel the desperation seeping into the space between them.

The soldier was an unexpected puzzle. Ivan licked his lips in anticipation. Maybe it was time to play.

"Well let's see if I can't change your mind. Here, try this." He opened the top of a tall metal cylinder taking pride of place on top of the cabinet. "This is a thermos. It's not a perfect solution but it helps for a few hours."

From the immediate gasp it was clear that Mitchell knew what was coming before the liquid started to pour into the glass. By the time it was held out towards him he was already moving quickly to reach for it, hands shaking. As soon as his fingers touched it his eyes bled into black. He didn't wait for an invitation to drink. Still gasping, he held out the shaking glass in a mute demand for more. Ivan obliged, pouring two further, smaller glasses for himself and Ellie.

"As I was saying," he said with heavy emphasis, not sure whether Mitchell could still hear or understand anything. "It's not a perfect solution. The life drains away quickly, so much more quickly than the warmth, but if the supply is properly managed there is usually enough left to take the edge off."

Mitchell paused and blinked his eyes to normal. "Oh God. I can taste it, it's faint, but there's still life there. And there's something else, something… peaceful. I know it from somewhere, but I can't quite…." He stared into the glass before raising it to his lips for another deep gulp. "Oh God," he groaned again, letting his head fall back against the chair as the liquid soothed his throat and filtered into his veins. "I thought I'd tried everything but ... nothing fuckin' worked. Nothing. Jesus Christ."

The room was hushed. Ivan hadn't expected the response to be so raw. He lit another cigarette and handed it over the back of the chair.

"What did you try?" he asked, almost gently.

For a moment he thought he'd pushed too far too fast and Mitchell would duck the question. He stood motionless, waiting, as Mitchell pressed the palm of his hand against his forehead with considerable force and sucked in a lungful of smoke.

Then it came.

"It would be quicker to say what I didn't try. Rats in the trenches, hundreds of them. I can still taste them… still hear that sound they made... feel the crack of their bones echoing in my head... Then the floor of the field hospital, the discarded bandages, the abandoned flesh. Then the bodies of the dead, there was no shortage of them. Then myself. I could go on but what's the point."

"Yourself?" Ellie whispered in return, taking a step closer to the chair and brushing the back of his hand with hers. A small frown started to hover over Ivan's face.

Mitchell took another tense lungful. "By the time I'd given up trying the death rate among the rats was drawing attention even in the middle of all the mud and carnage. My Captain began to think there was some seeping poison infecting our trench. There was. Me."

Ivan watched as Mitchell gulped down the last of the liquid, the frown deepening for a moment. He stored away a little question for later: where was Herrick while his recruit was scrabbling around in the filth? Surely he hadn't been left alone to find his own first kill - that was barbaric as well as dangerous.

He broke the hush, raising his voice to a normal tone and lacing it with brisk exasperation. "Well of course that sort of thing doesn't work you bloody fool. Why weren't you told that immediately, for Christ's sake."

Mitchell ignored the question, instead he stood up with a challenge sharpening his voice. "But this is fresh human blood so how is this any kind of alternative? We're still piling up the bodies."

"Actually, no. Look down there."

Mitchell went to the window and looked down to the side of the warehouse. A paper lantern let out a sickly yellow light and a few young men huddled underneath as they hunkered by a battered old red door, their faces obscured by hats and scarves.

"It's a transaction. Mutually beneficial for donor and recipient. They never even meet - not down there at least."

"You mean people actually let us draw their blood? For money?"

"There can't be much people do that still surprises you, Mitchell."

Ivan played with the lighter in his hand, striking the light repeatedly as he drank in the myriad emotions racing over the younger man's face.

Mitchell looked across to where Ellie was sitting on the arm of a chair. "But it's too risky. They might not know what we are, what we use them for, but they'll work out we kill them sooner or later. Mostly sooner."

She shrugged and transferred her gaze to Ivan, telegraphing her concern at where this was headed.

Ivan waited. Go on, he thought, you can see this for what it is, go on. His chin raised higher as he watched the recruit lick at his lips again, testing the liquid. Then the dark brows snapped together. Ah, the penny had dropped already. Ivan was impressed.

Mitchell turned his back on the window. "It's not for the money. That comes with too high a risk of betrayal, and that would be dangerous, right Ivan? I knew I could taste something. They do it for the morphine." He moved over to the flask and touched the side of it with the tips of his fingers. "For soldiers so damaged by war they can't escape the pain any other way."

"As I said, it's mutually beneficial. We all have our addictions." 

"But it means there's no need to kill and run."

Ivan snorted in disbelief. "No need to kill? Don't be ridiculous! Why would you even want to think that? It's just a little trick to string out the anticipation. We can't kill every time we get peckish now can we, not unless you and Herrick are planning to make the human race extinct one at a time. But it means we buy the time to be more… elegant… in our pursuits when we don't have to run. So you're half right. As I said, keep the piles of bones just at the edge of their vision. Look at Venice, they know what they're doing there."

"Right. But it's not always so anonymous from what you just said. Donor and recipient meet sometimes. Why?"

Ivan didn't hesitate. "For the extreme cases, for those beyond living or nearing the end. For them there is another entrance. Would you like to see?"

Ellie reached a hand out to grip Ivan's sleeve. "Ivan. Really. Do you think this is a good idea?"

"Why not? Because Mitchell will be shocked? My sweet, somehow I think he will understand better than either of us."

* * *

 

 

Mitchell followed Ivan and Ellie down an iron staircase to the back of the labyrinth of warehouse buildings. It was pitch dark now, and eerily quiet for this part of the city. They stepped out onto the cobbled street and walked a few yards to a concealed corner of the building. Another lantern hung above the decaying entrance and two men moved to the side to let them pass.

The room was cool inside, but darkened, with windows set high in the bare brick walls and blacked out against sunlight and street lamps alike. Despite this the atmosphere in the room hung heavy and soporific. Ivan remained leaning against the door jamb. His hooded gaze followed Mitchell who walked straight to the side of the nearest bed. His steps were slow and steady as if not wanting to disturb even the air.

The young man lying there had pulled back the scarves and exposed the holes in his shattered face and body, livid burns scarring any tissue that remained. Mitchell sat and took his hand, watching as the man barely twitched in response. The drip, drip of morphine into his veins a lullaby.

Mitchell turned over the hand and traced puncture wounds in the arm. He replaced it on the bed with slow, gentle care. For a moment he stayed motionless, eyes adjusting to the dim light until he could take in the half dozen beds. At the far end there was the shape of a vampire, seemingly as young as a man on the bed beside him, holding an arm to his face.

Mitchell stood and walked back with a steady stride to Ivan's side, "You're right, I do understand." was all he said.

By the time they'd reached the front of the warehouse Mitchell was able to face him, clear-eyed. "It makes sense in a way." Mitchell's voice was low and calm in the night air. "War exists and vampirism exists, so here we all are, playing the hands we're dealt. Who knows, maybe they go together, war and vampires. Maybe one evolved from the other and this is the way it's always been meant to be. There's no point arguing with nature, or God, or whatever. Maybe we're all nothing but pieces of shrapnel, spat out at random. It's just that some of us are sent ripping through those in our path.

"But this little arrangement of yours can't last, can it?" Mitchell asked. "Word gets out, people talk, or you run out of the wounded and damaged in the end. And then the police arrive."

"Of course, but the police let us move onto another location, and when that gets too risky, we have someone to take the blame."

"Who?"

"Who cares? Opium dens, the white slave trade, the Brilliant Chang. Ach. It is so easy when this insular little island decides to take some xenophobic madness into its head. Thank God for Conan Doyle and all that Sherlock Holmes opium den claptrap. It's so perfect anyone would think we'd written it for him."

"There are no opium dens, then?"

"There are places where Chinese workers socialise and smoke, of course. But the overheated imaginings of the popular press? Please!"

"And the Brilliant Chang? Even I've heard of him. So is he an evil vampire opium overlord?"

Ivan flicked ash onto the floor. "I'm afraid the poor man is a scapegoat in waiting."

Mitchell nodded, stopped at the foot of the staircase and held out his hand. "Thank you. Thanks for your trust Ivan."

"I'm happy to be useful for a change. Take care, my friend."

Mitchell bent to brush Ellie's cheek with his lips.

"Are you alright?" she asked before she could stop herself.

"Thank you. Yes, actually I am. Goodnight."

 

Ivan watched as Mitchell walked away. He slid his hands around Ellie's waist and drew her close. "I think you're right, Ellie. Mitchell is an interesting prospect, and I never thought I'd be saying that about one of Herrick's men. Did he say anything about why Herrick has come back?"

"Not a thing. He didn't talk much about what they've been up to. If I asked anything even slightly related he politely changed the subject."

"Remind me never to ask you to be a spy, poppet." He dropped a casual kiss on the top of her head. "Never mind. Did you have a good time all the same?"

Ellie knew he was fishing. "Hmm. It was… complicated."

Ivan chuckled as he gave her waist a squeeze. "Of course! But you were right about something, I do like him."

She lent back against his chest. "I'm starting to think he might be the most dangerous vampire I've ever met."

"Dangerous? Really! Elizabeth! Surely you don't believe everything that psychotic little clerk says?" He planted a kiss on her neck. "And I'm insulted - you've never said that about me. In fact you've never been frightened of anyone or anything."

She turned and rested her arms on his shoulders. "Not true. And there are different kinds of dangerous, my love."

* * *

 

 

"I'd say good morning Mitchell, but that would be inaccurate." Herrick's china teacup clinked as he looked up from the remains of his lunch. "What happened to you?"

Mitchell found it hard to believe the heavy wooden clock ticking away on the mantelpiece. After walking the Soho streets through the night he had come back to the nondescript little house long after Herrick had returned from… whatever.

Mitchell scratched the back of his head as waited for the interrogation, but to his surprise it didn't come.

Herrick had seen him leave with Ellie yesterday. No doubt he was sitting there now with his dimpled smile and chilly eyes, assuming the obvious. Mitchell felt no need to put him straight, and certainly no need to mention Ivan. Not yet.

"Nothing much, just finding my way around a bit. You know, there are some all night coffee houses around here. I'll take you to them later. Great coffee." He grabbed a slice of bread. "Anyway, maybe I'm turning into one of the Children of the Night, I will sleep in my coffin all day and only come out with the bats."

"Ha." Herrick gave a wink as he squeezed past to reach the kitchen sink. "So you've graduated from your comics and moved up to the penny dreadfuls. But I think that applies only if you're planning on turning into a wolf."

"Sorry?"

"Children of the Night? Dear Bram was talking about the howling wolves. That reminds me, it's about time you met a werewolf face-to-face. I'll ask around. There's usually somebody keeping one as a pet somewhere."

"A pet? You're jokin'. You are joking, aren't you? Why would anyone do that?"

"They're a rare and valuable commodity. Some are old or weak and best put down of course, but others can fight, and where there's a fight to be had there's money to be made. Lots of it. Yes, it's time you branched out a bit. I'll see what I can find. You get yourself some breakfast or lunch or whatever it is. I've got an afternoon date with a waitress to keep."

"A waitress now, is it? Good luck my man. Will I get to meet her or is this, erm, personal?"

"Oh you'll meet her, Mitchell." Herrick looked around for his jacket. "I certainly hope you will enjoy meeting her very soon. She's a little… special. I'll see you later. And remember, no snacking. You are saving yourself for the 44 Club. That's an order."

"Yes sir." Mitchell saluted the closing door.


	5. Special

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is there a line that Mitchell won't cross? Surely...

 

 

 

 

"Did you enjoy that?" a warm voice asked from just above his right ear.

Mitchell looked up to see a neat little matron paused next to his table, taking a break from clearing up piles of plates and teapots.

He'd been miles away, sitting still and quiet in the corner where the mirrors couldn't see him. Memories he'd thought lost ambushing him as he stared at the dregs of tea swirling in the pretty china cup.

Like the day Aunt Bernadette offered to tell his future as long as he made a solemn promise not to tell Father Doyle about her little descent into witchcraft. They'd giggled together at that - two conspirators in sin. He'd listened as she described in meticulous detail the kind and beautiful girl he was going marry, how they would live happily ever after, and have a yard full of dark-haired children. She'd pointed out the patterns the tea leaves had left in his upturned cup, and the leaves never, ever lied.

It had been Maire she described, of course, but he hadn't worked it out. Instead he'd teased her back, asking where on earth he would find such an angel. She'd sighed and patted his cheek like she always did.

So why had the tea leaves forgotten to show how it was all going to end? Surely that had been important enough to mention. That's the problem with the supernatural. It was making it all up as it went along – setting everything in motion and then turning its face to the wall and waiting for the damage to be tallied later. By that measure Herrick's belief in some greater destiny was as doomed as his own naive hopes for happiness had ever been.

"I'm sorry to make you jump like that." The matron ran her hands down the front of the regulation waitress' white apron. "I only wanted to ask whether I could pour you another cuppa."

"It's fine, it's fine. And the pudding was delicious. Nice and stodgy." His grin was genuine. "How much is that?"

"Tuppence, dear. But there's no hurry. You take your time."

She patted his hand with all the indulgent affection of a distracted aunt before bustling off towards the kitchen, balancing a couple of silver trays as she went.

Mitchell flinched as an echo of response skittered through the back of his hand. Blood calling to blood - a simple matter of biology, nothing more. He stretched out his fingers until the thrumming dissipated.

His watch said five-thirty but it must be later. Perhaps he'd forgotten to wind it this morning, so he twisted to look at the wall clock behind him. But five-thirty it was. So - another hour to kill before the pubs opened. And four bloody hours before he'd meet Herrick at the 44 Club.

His mind turned back to the words Ivan had thrown so casually at him the other day: "the newcomer's obligatory kill". Those words had been crawling round in his head ever since in a dizzying cocktail of dread and anticipation. Herrick still hadn't said anything to him about it... no wait... he'd been warned not to feed alone, so of course that must be why. Jesus. Why did the man have to be so fuckin' cryptic all the time. The only thing he was ever straightforward about was killing.

Herrick was out again this afternoon. After half a decade being so closely linked to Herrick's every manoeuvre these absences were leaving Mitchell strangely adrift. Perhaps he'd become too used to being the centre of attention, however much he affected to ignore it.

Ahh… of course. It would be the current project. The waitress.

Mitchell would lay good money on her being on the menu, maybe even tonight. A light hors d'oeuvres before leaving the house — just a taste to keep them both going until the main course, perhaps. A hard smile raised the corner of his mouth. Laying on his bed in the quiet of the night he had allowed himself to play with Herrick's promise that she was "special", turning his desires round and round in his mind until the heated darkness drew him down into the pit and sleep had finally come.

Now those images flashed across his mind. The prick of response crawled up the back of his neck and heat began to beat seductively in his ears. He didn't realise he'd been holding his breath until it released with a blow and he refilled his lungs with an audible intake.

It was getting too busy in here. Too much humanity. The tables were filling up as people came in to relax and chat. Looking around it struck him the room was full of women. Two girls on the table next to him both smiled directly at him. Why would they do that? A bit forward, even for the new decade. Or was it because he was smiling himself... remembering those delicious thoughts....

He dragged two pennies from his trouser pocket and dropped them down onto the table even as he began negotiating his way between the tightly packed customers.

"Bye, dear."

He half-raised a hand in acknowledgement of the words, but didn't allow his eyes to waver from the door.

Well, that was a lesson learnt. Tea rooms were better hunting grounds for naively modern girls than any bar or pub. It seemed he didn't need to seek out temptation, temptation was becoming increasingly good at finding him.

Mitchell's limbs itched to get moving again - to be _doing_.

Montague Road stretched out in front of him. The crowds in dull uniforms of work clothes jostling past with the promise in their veins all humming to the same gentle rhythm.

The road ahead swam into a sea of grey and red. Acres of boredom relieved only by bright flashes of slaughter.

A life not so very different to the trenches, then.

That was when he knew what he had been avoiding all day - he wanted to see Ellie. He needed to talk to her, really talk to her. The sudden rush of need was practically physical, running through him with an electric jolt.

* * *

 

 

By the time he stood at the door of the 44 Club at nine-thirty sharp Mitchell was wired as taut as a violin string.

His coat was taken at the door, and instead of being led to the club rooms he was shown a narrow carpeted staircase. "No sir, tonight we're closed, it's only your private party in the upstairs dining room." The delectable young woman explained, hugging his coat. He wondered whether she'd be invited to join them later. That would be nice.

The dining room was a crushing disappointment after the opulence downstairs. It was nothing but an upstairs room containing an eclectic mish-mash of old tables and chairs. Electric lights and tiny windows. The only signs of glamour were the vaulted ceiling and the array of crystal glasses and decanters spread across the wooden tables.

Men and women of all races, shapes and sizes were milling around, pouring each other drinks from the decanters. He couldn't know for sure, but it looked likely almost everyone in the room tonight was a vampire. A pall of cigarette smoke hung just above their heads and the noise level was climbing.

At the centre of the room was a wide raised platform, only about a foot high, and with a single large white sofa incongruously placed in the middle. A couple of men were fussing around some electrical equipment at the edge of the platform.

Nobody paid any attention to him at all.

To his relief Mitchell spotted Herrick chatting urbanely with a girl on his arm. With a nod of recognition, Herrick excused himself from the conversation and ushered his companion towards Mitchell with a guiding hand resting at her back.

"Alice, my dear, this is John. He's a very old, very good friend of mine. I hope you don't mind him joining us tonight, do you?"

Herrick winked at Mitchell as Alice took his hand and returned a gentle shake. Mitchell kept his voice low as he said his "pleased to meet you" and tried to find his most unthreatening face, despite looming over Alice by about a foot.

"Of course. William, how could you think I'd object? You can be silly sometimes, you know." With a shy laugh, she linked her arm in Mitchell's as well. Herrick gave his twinkliest grin.

So this was Herrick's project. She was nice, that much was obvious. The way her smile was so genuine and her chat was designed to draw him into the conversation. She was still a surprise, though - pretty enough in a forgettable way with soft brown hair dressed in a chignon, a loose dress disguising a noticeably plump figure, and flat shoes emphasising her small stature. She was as lovely and as ordinary as a thousand girls within a mile of where they were standing. She certainly didn't live up to Mitchell's fevered night-time imaginings, so what exactly was so special about her?

"You look radiant, my dear." Herrick squeezed her fingers.

"Oh my." Alice blushed at the very idea.

Mitchell repressed an urge to turn and run. This wasn't fair. Whatever it was Herrick had in mind for gentle little Alice tonight was not going to be fair. He'd keep well away from it. He scanned the room and then with a soft touch on Alice's shoulder made his excuses and turned to where Ellie was deep in conversation with Ivan.

Ivan immediately broke off. "Herrick." He called across. "It's been a long time. How are you enjoying the twentieth century?"

"A big improvement on the nineteenth in my opinion." He shook Ivan's proffered hand, but there was a distinct chill in the air.

Mitchell wanted to hear more, but Ellie stepped over and drew him away to a nearby table, sliding her arm under his.

"How are you, doll?" she asked, handing him her cigarette for a final drag before taking it back and stubbing it out on the ashtray.

"I'm fine. And you?"

"I've been thinking about you." Her voice dropped and she squeezed his arm. "You know, after what you saw I've been worrying about you. Ivan got carried away, I think."

He rested against the edge of a table and drew her closer to face him.

"No. I'm grateful to Ivan. And I've been thinking about you too." He wanted to say much more, to explain how there were so many things he needed to talk about, a thousand questions he'd been waiting to ask, but the attention they were attracting stopped him from continuing.

Ellie must have picked up on his reticence because she gently offered him a change of subject. "There'll be dancing later on, which Ivan hates, damn him, so can I reserve you for all the slow ones? You were hopeless last time, let's see if I can teach you some more."

"I'd like that. I'd like that a lot." Mitchell pushed upright from the table feeling the warmth of her hand as she stepped to his side and ran it up his back in reply. In that moment he didn't ever want to leave this place.

"Please try not to get too messy before then; this dress is my favourite and is hellish to get clean." She nodded her head towards Herrick's companion. "Who's your new friend over there?"

"Alice, and she's Herrick's guest tonight. I don't know how long he'll be able to keep her from recognising the blood in the decanters for what it is. Look, she's wrinkling her nose. I think she'd like to leave already. Poor thing."

Ellie's surprise was evident. "So this is Herrick's contribution to the evening? Really? So, is she your type?"

"My type?" Mitchell echoed, brows knitting together. "Why should she be...? You mean..." he couldn't help his gaze straying towards the sofa in the centre of the room, "Herrick's brought her here for me?"

"That's the usual arrangement. You _are_ his recruit. But I would have expected something more flamboyant from William. More... special. Especially for you." She tilted her head to the side as she examined him, eyes crinkling. "A matching pair of exotic dancers perhaps. Or you could dispose of an anti-Home Rule politician or two, now that would be socially responsible. Should we arrange that one day? It could be fun."

His smile wavered. "That was the word Herrick used. Special."

They both watched as Herrick returned to Alice's side with a glass of water which he slid into her hand while steering her deftly away from the decanters.

"You really shouldn't have any wine, my dear," they heard him say as he escorted her past them towards a table in the corner, "it isn't good for you."

Ellie shook her head. "She looks like a deer in the headlights. Help yourself to another glass Mitchell, you look like you need it."

The laborious process of introducing Mitchell to the few dozen vampires in attendance that night felt like it would take forever and there was little chance he'd remember most of their names later, especially as his glass was instantly refilled every time it dropped to less than half full. The lull of the morphine was barely noticeable, but mixed in with the heady cocktail of blood types he still felt it soothe the nervousness hiding behind his easy smiles and chat.

Mitchell was acutely aware of Ivan paying close attention from a chair next to the raised platform. He hoped the occasional nod suggested approval.

He stole a glance across the room to see Ellie approach Alice. Herrick moved away, allowing the conversation to proceed unhindered. That was surprising. Mitchell turned his back. It was too late, Alice was already dead. Whatever he chose to do tonight, one way or another the vampires in this room would all be having a taste.

Once Mitchell had been round everyone Ivan stood and waited for silence to fall. "I think we should start proceedings. And in the traditional manner, Mr. Herrick, if you please -" He sat down again so quickly anyone would think he was weary of the whole affair, but Mitchell could feel those wide black eyes drilling into him.

Ellie was making her way between the tables as fast as she could manage with so many obstacles in the way, gesturing Mitchell towards her and shaking her head emphatically. It looked like she was telling him 'no'. Before she got half way a burly vampire unceremoniously stood in her path.

Mitchell had taken only a couple of strides towards her when he was interrupted by Ivan's ringing voice, "John Mitchell, we welcome you."

Herrick had moved swiftly to take Alice by the elbow. "Come with me, my dear. I'd like you to meet John properly this time."

Confused, but not yet panicking, Alice allowed him to lead her to the sofa, but faced with the prospect of sitting there on show before all the people who had settled themselves with glasses full of the strange viscous wine, she shook her head and stood firm.

"William," she whispered, tears starting to form in her eyes. "I don't feel comfortable. Could we go back to our table?"

With a sudden thrust of his hand into her chest Herrick forced her to fall back into the sofa. The shock wiped the tears from her eyes and she tried to get up again.

"Fucking stay where you are." He hissed, summoning his eyes to bleed to an eerie pitch dark blue. The horror of the moment fixed her in place and she cowered back into the sofa, unable to take her eyes from him.

"As I was saying, my dear, let me introduce John properly." He went on, a sinuous tone in his voice, beckoning Mitchell forward.

Mitchell too seemed rooted to the spot.

Ivan stood and picked his way past the wires and cables. "Is this thing even working?" he tapped the obtrusive black box as he passed.

A muffled voice came from under a blanket of material behind the box. "Yes, sir, the camera is rolling."

Ivan moved on and stopped by Mitchell's shoulder. "No choice, my friend." His voice kept low and reassuring, for Mitchell's ears only. "No choice. Unless you want to hand her over to Herrick and those two heavies back there. They'll tear her to pieces. Which would be entertaining enough, now I come to think about it."

Mitchell felt Ivan's hands rest on the collar of his jacket, then start easing it back off his shoulders. He gave a little shrug and took half a step forward to help.

Alice's face turned away from Herrick and looked straight at him. He could see the struggle as she fought to maintain control over her shaking body. Panic was pouring from her now. He could smell it. Reach out and touch it. The fear made her mute, but her eyes screamed.

A wave of sensation and bottomless hunger engulfed him.

He stepped forward.

He sat.

* * *

 

 

It was so close to feeling his own heart beat again. The seductive rhythm in his veins and arteries, tensing and releasing as his thumb traced back and forth across the pulse in her wrist.

Mitchell watched Herrick stroke the girl's hair once and she cringed away, leaning heavily into his side. Then Herrick was backing away from them both, eyes blinking away the darkness and reverting to a chill icy blue. Mitchell felt a flicker of unease run up his back. Herrick always seemed to become colder as he himself grew more heated. More controlled, even as Mitchell fell further into abandon.

He knew he was saying something to the girl - what was her name? He'd forgotten her name - something soothing and warm and comforting, but he couldn't hear his own words for the thudding pulse in his ears.

It didn't matter.

She was saying something back. Some of it managed to filter through the red heat around him. "Help me… please… you can save me… know you can… out of here… monsters… help me… save me…"

"Everything will be fine, sweetheart. I'll look after you." The words were disconnected from him. A predator calming frightened prey. Nothing more. Keep it calm, make it inevitable.

After a moment the tension relaxed a little in her body, just enough for Mitchell to judge he could edge closer without making her scream. He conjured a smile to curve his lips, fighting to keep his eyes soft and warm when everything in him was hardening into a weapon.

Still holding her wrist, he raised his right hand to her cheek, moving her face to look away from the hushed audience.

"Keep looking at me, sweetheart. Just keep looking at me."

Holding her with his eyes his fingers dropped, lingering as they brushed across the side of her neck. He held his breath, feeling the scarlet rush of her heartbeat as he stroked across her throat and down to her breastbone. He waited for her gasp, it always came. The point of no return.

"I'll look after you, sweetheart." He kept up the mantra, but lowered his eyes to her throat. Immediately his eyes left hers he felt the pull of her hand against his as she pressed back against the sofa. He tightened his grip over the pulse. It felt so so good. It almost made him feel alive.

She didn't scream. Instead her voice took on a steeliness. "Do what you want. I'll give you whatever you want. I'll do anything. Just don't…"

She was trying to bargain. Offering herself in return for her freedom. They often did, poor creatures. He pulled her closer, using his height and strength to bear down over her. Still she didn't scream.

He sensed the intake of breath from the vampires around them as he drew her head to one side and savoured the sensation of absolute power, hovering his mouth above her throat.

Take. Kill. Be killed. What did any of it really matter?

As he looked down his mind emptied of sense or memory. There was only this physical matter. Simple biology.

With a groan he released his fangs and drew them over the artery. Back and forth, mirroring his thumb still pressing down onto her wrist. He should snap her neck. It was so easy. How many times had he done that before now. Finish this for her before she'd know the full terror and the pain and the slow end. But he didn't want to. He didn't want to save her. He wanted to feel everything, and for that, so must she.

He pressed his mouth hard against her neck, this time scraping enough to break skin and draw blood.

A visible shudder ran through his body.

Jesus Christ.

It came through the traces of blood as he fixed his mouth and prepared to force his fangs deeply through flesh to the source - to violate and drink.

The wonderful surge of her frantic heartbeat.

And then another beat. A different beat.

How could there be another heartbeat? Quieter, faster, stronger. A pure life-force.

Her voice whispered in his ear, as hard and desperate as he felt. "Anything. You can do anything to me. Please, just don't hurt the baby, please don't hurt my baby, please, please, my baby, please…"

\- _Special_ -

Now he understood. And god forgive him it was too late.

Nothing was sacred any more, everything had become profane.

And all the time the camera whirred.

* * *

 

 

He could hear the roaring of blood in his ears as he drifted back to the world, reinhabiting his body cell by cell. He was still on the sofa, red and sticky now with sprays of blood, as were his hair and clothes. The girl - what was her name? - the corpse was gone from his side. How long had he lain unconscious? Not too long, he realised as he felt the blood still warm and slick.

He swung heavy legs off the sofa and sat upright. The noise hit him in a wave. Laughter and excitement and music. There was a band playing now and a woman was singing torch songs.

He felt someone lean on the back of the sofa. "Very nicely done in the end Mitchell. You have a talent, although Ellie has already told me that."

He twisted round to see Ivan, red streaks across his face. "Come and join the rest of the party. There's going to be dancing, which is not my style, but there are quite a few women here who'd like to give you a try, and a couple of men too. I suggest you make the most of it."

Mitchell raised himself with exaggerated care, balancing for a moment with a hand on the arm of the sofa. He waited for the richness of the blood pounding through him to settle. The sting from the scratches across his face and shoulders was already fading away. Life surged through him. Christ but this felt magnificent. Straightening up he pulled his shirt back into some kind of order and looked across the tables for Ellie.

She was sitting in a high-backed armchair at the back of the room, sipping from a wine glass, a decanter in her other hand, although not a drop of blood was on her face or clothes.

She looked directly at Mitchell as he crouched down by the side of her chair with his eyes gleaming. His body felt electric, singing for her. Her lovely, pale face presented an unreadable mask.

"Hello Mitchell. We can be civilised about this. We can meet, and we can talk, if you like, but I'm giving you fair warning - don't ever, ever touch me again. You do not lay a finger on me. If you do I will kill you. Do you understand me?"

The ground beneath his feet gave a lurch and he shot out a hand onto the floor to steady himself.

"Tell me you understand."

"Ellie, please. I understand the words, but they don't make sense. Why?"

"It doesn't matter why. Just know it to be true. Good night."

Without another glance in his direction she picked up her shoes from under the chair and walked out of the door.

Shell shocked, Mitchell raised himself up and stared at the closed door. He couldn't accept that, he wouldn't. Rage started to flare in his veins.

He turned to see Herrick walking towards him, a trickle of blood on the front of his shirt, a proud smile spreading across his face, and arms outstretched to draw the recruit back into the laughter and excitement escalating behind him.

It seemed the delectable cloakroom girl been invited to join the dance after all.

 


	6. Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after. It's all over. Isn't it?

 

 

  
Ivan eyed his right hand with detachment, flexed his fingers and waited for the sharp edge of discomfort to begin, like a splinter forcing itself under his skin. He resented the need to move, but with the shaft of dawn sunlight inching its way up his arm moving was inevitable. As was so much in his life. When the tepid warmth licked at the skin of his neck he knew the night was over.

To give Herrick his due it had been quite a night, even by his own exacting standards. Ivan eyes closed as nostalgia blanketed him for a moment. Swinburne would have loved it, although a few of those artist friends of his would have fled screaming long before the end. Despite their talk about art reflecting the truth of nature they were all show and no substance when it came to truth laid bare.  _‘Tho’ Nature, red in tooth and claw'._

Indeed.

Nights like this never got tired. Truth be told, they were the only thing that never got tired, however much he feigned otherwise. It lingered still. The tang of iron on the tongue; the cloying smell of sweetness hanging in the air, mixed with traces of arousal and piss. The heaviness in his limbs and the satisfaction purring in his heart and soul.

The room felt peaceful now, as if it had reached a full-stop. It would be nice to rest awhile longer but whoever had furnished this upstairs room should be taken out and staked. Once again the hard wood of the chair made him shuffle. It was all very well making everything easy to hose down or cheap enough to throw away, but this was going too far…. He leant away from the light and passed the back of his hand across his mouth, laving the hint of irritation.

A scrape of a chair leg against the floorboards thundered in the quiet.

“It suits him, doesn’t it?”

Ivan didn’t even acknowledge Herrick’s words drifting across the table, just turned his head away to see what had prompted them.

“I knew he would rise to the challenge.” Herrick ploughed on. “It’s gratifying to see, isn’t it? After all, one has a responsibility to nurture talent. It’s a duty that falls upon us all, to strengthen ourselves, to consider our race. Our future depends on…”

A hiss of irritation slipped from Ivan’s lips. Not now, for Christ’s sake. It was much too early in the morning for this.

“Or just to have a fucking good time, eh William? Here, have a glass of water. Rehydrate a bit. Enjoy the view.” Reaching over the table between them he poured out two glasses of iced water from the replenished decanter on the table. His gaze followed Herrick’s back to the centre of the room.

“One sofa." Ivan gave a theatrical sigh. "One bloody sofa in the room and your fucking... flyboy... over there gets to lounge on it for hours. Someone needs to teach him better etiquette when there’s an Old One present or there will be unhappy consequences.”

The look he shot back towards Herrick was plain enough so the man should get the message: it being that his little speech did not become a vampire as new as Hetty’s whoremongering clerk and he should watch his manners. How long had it been now? Only thirty-odd years a vampire and Herrick already thinks he can lecture an Old One on responsibility and duty. Ivan might enjoy the notoriety of not giving much of a shit about hierarchies, but there are still rules. And so it was a pleasure to see the flicker of caution cross that smug face.

Good. Let him stew a bit. Ivan turned back towards the sofa.

He watched as Mitchell stirred, stretching out his neck at an awkward angle as he pulled himself up from a prone position half sprawled over the cushions. It was quite entertaining. For some time Mitchell didn’t seem entirely able to co-ordinate his long limbs as he struggled to right himself and position his feet on the floor, half rising, wobbling a little, and then falling back. He lifted his hands to hold the sides of his drooping head, but stopped with a comical jerk and brought them round in front of his face as if trying to bring them into focus.

Ivan could see the deep furrow of concentration between his brows from ten feet away, and smothered a laugh. Not much cat-like grace on display this morning, then.

Mitchell dropped one hand back onto the sofa. He dipped red-stained fingers between the cushions and brought them back to his lips, pausing a second before closing his eyes and licking at the congealed blood.

Picking up another glass of water from the table, Ivan took pity and started across the room.

“Hair of the dog?” he tilted his chin towards Mitchell's fingers. When no answer came he held out the glass.

Mitchell didn’t take it. His head remained fixed downwards. One last flick of a tongue. And another. Then the wipe of fingers across the front of his shirt. They left barely a trace of red. 

When Mitchell raised his eyes they were wide, wild. Ivan held the glass a little tighter.

“Where is she?” Mitchell’s voice scratched low and parched.

"Good morning to you too. Where's who? Oh, you mean where is the body. Which one exactly? Of course there was the first one…”

“Alice.” Mitchell snapped his brows together again, lowering his gaze again.

“Indeed… Alice... such a lovely name. I wonder what she would have called her child. ‘John’ is popular these days, I hear.” He sensed as much as heard the gulped intake of breath. “Anyway, after your Alice there was the cloakroom girl, a very delicious little thing I remember. Of course we made sure you shared her. You started to slow down a bit after that, until..."

“I meant, where is Ellie.” Mitchell said, a steadiness in his tone that belied the chaos Ivan had glimpsed raging.

“She left early.” He put an arm out as Mitchell hauled himself to his feet. “Leave her alone, Mitchell. You won’t be doing yourself any favours charging after her in this state.”

“D’you wanna stop me?” Those wild eyes looked straight into Ivan’s still, black ones. There was more than a hint of a challenge in them now.

“Ellie’s a free agent, Mitchell, she’s not mine to police. And whether you choose to take my advice is entirely up to you,” he patted Mitchell’s shoulder, “but you’d be mad to discount it. My advice is legendary, you know. So. Moving on. The bodies - they've been taken to the warehouse. A little decanting of whatever’s left and then a short journey to the docks for disposal. There’s nothing for you to worry about here.”

The challenge drained from Mitchell as quickly as it had flared. He straightened up with a shrug and took in the state of the room around him.

“Ah shit. It’s daylight outside, isn't it. How the fuck am I going to get home looking like this? Is that why everyone else has gone already, while it was dark?” He stared down at himself, waving his hands over his torn and encrusted white shirt and bloodied, twisted trousers. “Jesus, I really need to start planning ahead.”

Flinging his arms wide he turned from Ivan and headed towards Herrick. “You could have warned me, you bastard. Forewarned is forearmed, as you’re always bloody saying.” He half-tripped over a cable snaking its way across the floor and huffed out a foul curse devoid of venom. A grin was in place by the time he reached forward to take Herrick’s glass. The water drained in a couple of gulps.

Herrick gestured at the back of the chair next to him. “Look. At least we saved your jacket for you, what more could we do? You were otherwise engaged, my boy. You’d hardly have listened to me interrupting to talk about the escalating laundry bill, now would you?” he chuckled. “Do what I did. Go get a wash and and give yourself a bit of a wipedown. And throw away what’s left of that shirt, you’d never be able to explain that. You can wrap yourself in your jacket and coat. It’ll be enough to get you home.” He indulged himself with a dramatic pause as he raised his eyebrows, “Maybe… But if we get stopped by an over-enthusiastic bobby on the way you’re on your own, sunshine.”

Mitchell was already tearing off the remains of the shirt as he headed to the bathroom.

Ivan had told himself he wasn’t going to rise to the bait, that it was too tiresome to get caught up in Herrick’s little world. But something snapped when he saw the smirk of triumph on the man's face as he gathered up Mitchell's jacket.

He positioned himself by the door, choosing to use his superior height to loom over Herrick when he approached.

“Don’t think I don’t know, William.” Ivan’s voice had dropped to a monotone. Anyone else would think he was disinterested, but the stiffening of Herrick’s neck in response told another story. “Your little game here last night. That was a low blow my friend. A clever one I grant you, but don’t assume I will let it pass.”

He stepped back and allowed Herrick just enough space to leave.

* * *

 

Sunday dawned bright and beautiful.

Today everything would change, Mitchell decided. He’d done the sensible thing for once and taken Ivan’s advice, but now the high in his veins had finally settled down into a satisfying hum and he could face Ellie in full control of his senses. It had been nearly two days. Surely two days was long enough.

Mitchell knew he would go mad stuck in this box of a guesthouse thinking about it for any longer. He was designed for action, always had been. There had been the inevitable broken arm when he was six; Mam throwing a mop at his head in despair at the sight of another muddy floor and two filthy, rescued lambs bundled next to the stove in Mitchell’s only warm jacket, and what with Father Doyle about to drop in at any moment; Maire’s laugh as he….

Anyway, that had led him to the second decision of the morning. He needed a job. Hanging around coffee shops and pubs while dodging the worst of the sunlight was pointless. Granted, everything was pointless, but it would be a distraction from the pointlessness, at least. As long as it didn’t involve cleaning or mopping up, it’d be fine.

Ivan would have something. Working with Ivan would be interesting, it might even be worthwhile. His thoughts drifted back to the broken men in the warehouse. His Comrades. Or else there'd be work at the docks, especially with his accent - despite the fact he’d never built a dock wall in his life. Still, it was not as if there were many farms or battlefields in this part of London so that ruled out his work experience.

An unholy banging knocked him out of his reverie. He stopped chewing the end of the pencil twisting in his fingers and listened. No-one was answering. No-one else was home. They all had places to go, things to do, people who needed them. Perhaps he should ignore it. He looked back down at the newspaper.

“Alright, alright. Jesus.” He muttered in defeat as the front door threatened to cave in under the continued onslaught.

He all but yanked it from its hinges as he flung it open.

“Oh hello. Sorry. There wasn’t any answer so I tried knocking louder. Sorry to disturb you.”

Mitchell looked the skinny figure up and down. Young man, plastered down blond hair, cheap Sunday best suit, clutching a cap in his hands and shifting from one foot to another. It didn’t look like he was selling anything. His thin face was too grim for that. It shouldn’t take long to get rid of him.

“Um. I’m looking for a Mr. Herrick. A Mr. William Herrick.” He waited expectantly, but Mitchell pulled down the corners of his mouth, raised his eyebrows and shook his head. All at the same time. That should do the trick.

“Sorry. I… um… sorry… err… would that be you, sir?” The man’s voice sounded utterly lost, but he was determined to force an actual response.

_Damn._

“Me? No.” Mitchell fought the instinct to be helpful, but couldn’t quell the smile he gave the young man who was looking even more uncomfortable fidgeting on the doorstep. Another minute and he might combust. “Sorry, mate.”

“But Mr. Herrick lodges here, doesn’t he? I was given this address. I need to get a message to him. It’s urgent.”

Very determined.

_Shit._

He couldn’t give a flat-out denial then. Mitchell cast around for something non-committal.

“What does he look like?”

“I’m not exactly sure. I haven’t met him, you see. But I know he’s a mature gentleman. Nicely dressed. Very polite and kind.”

The urge to laugh seemed cruel in the face of the young man’s earnest expression, and Mitchell made sure he didn’t look away. That would appear shifty. Like he was lying, even.

“Right. Well. There’ve been a few, erm, mature gentlemen lodging here over the past couple of months that I’ve seen around. But I wouldn’t know their names. Tell you what. You give me your name and address and everything and I’ll pass the message onto the landlord. He can let you know.”

“Can I see the landlord now?”

“Nah. He’s not around. But I’ll make sure he gets your message.”

The man hesitated, looking back over his shoulder. There was no-one there Mitchell could see.

“Do you know how long he’ll be?”

“No idea, mate. Could be days.”

Another glance behind. “Oh. Well I suppose I could do that. Thank you, Mr…?”

Mitchell ignored the invitation. “Got anything to write on?”

The man patted the pockets of his rough jacket. This was taking forever and Mitchell’s patience was operating on a short fuse as it was.

“No? Come on in then.” Mitchell held the man’s grey eyes steadily as he drew the door further open. “My rooms are just down the end there.” He moved his body to the side and waited. When another hesitation followed he put an arm out, gesturing down the narrow corridor past the staircase. “It’s straight down the hall to the end.”

Finally the visitor stepped inside. Mitchell pushed the door shut with too much force and hurried the visitor through the gloom of the passage, leaning forward to open the door to the scullery kitchen.

“In here. Take a seat, and I’ll find some paper.”

The guest hovered by the side of the little table as Mitchell picked up the pencil resting on the newspaper crossword and grabbed an empty envelope. “Will these do?”

He handed the two over, studying the back of the man’s neck as he leant forward to write a careful message on the envelope. Scrubbed clean. His mother would be so very proud. Mitchell allowed himself the luxury of a light inhale - imperial leather, nicotine, an unexpected heat running in the blood and a tense thud in the heartbeat that sent an answering shudder through his own body. Oh, and the man was using his best handwriting too. Nice.

“What’s so important then?” Mitchell found it easy to keep the enquiry casual. The man straightened up and handed the envelope back.

“I’m looking for my sister, she’s been missing for a couple of days now. She walked here with a friend from the restaurant after her shift and I’m hoping she spoke to Mr. Herrick that evening. He was very kind to her, you see. He might be able to help me find her.”

Mitchell felt his body still. Preparing itself.

_Kill him._

“You haven’t seen her, have you? Maybe on the street around here on Friday evening?” The man dipped into his jacket inside pocket and then thrust a photograph into Mitchell’s hand.

_You have to look at it. You have to look. A garden. Alice. Her brother’s arm around her shoulder, eyes dancing, a smile directly into the camera lens. Directly into you._

The man continued, his voice more urgent. “Her name’s Alice. She wouldn’t go missing. I know everyone must say that, but it’s true. Alice’s no bolter. She really wouldn’t go running off anywhere without letting me know. Especially not now. Please. Please. Have you seen her?”

_No witnesses._

He shook his head and handed the photograph back. “She’s lovely.”

_What are you waiting for._

“You will make sure the landlord gets this straight away, won’t you?”

_Coward._

“’Course I will. I’m sure you’ll find her very soon.”

_Fuckin’ coward._

“Thank you for your help. Goodbye Mr.…”

A hand reaching out to grab his, to shake it, to thank him.

_Fuckin’ kill him now._

* * *

 

 

In the dark of the upstairs room of the 44 Club Herrick caught his breath - and it wasn’t because of the unavoidable tang of disinfectant in the air.

Good God. He’d known it would be good, but this. This was…

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been lost for words. He hadn’t expected to be holding his breath and feeling tendrils of lust reach and twist low in his abdomen.

His blackened eyes fixed on the flickering images projected onto the sheet hung across the back wall.

A white sofa.

A girl’s eyes.

A dance of fear and relief and denial and hope and pleading and terror and pain.

And then…

Blood running black on white. Endless, beautiful black.

He had been right all along.

He had never doubted. Not through the first two failures when the soldiers had run screaming from him, leaving comrades to their fate. No-one could mourn their demise when Seth or Smithy had caught up with their fleeing backs. Perhaps in that last moment they believed in vampires. Perhaps they regretted their disbelief. And not the next time when the corporal had slashed out so stupidly with his bayonet. Nor the other when the captain had fallen to his knees and whimpered ‘not me, don’t kill me, not like this, please.’

Spare us… Spare me... Take them...

Through all the disappointments he never lost faith that the right one would find him in the end.

A wise investment made in the mists of the battlefield.

It was still a delicate process, but Herrick trusted he had the skill to meet the challenge. Giving the boy what he didn’t know he needed; giving and giving and giving. Freeing him. Protecting him. And he doesn’t even know it. That’s the trick.

Hetty would be so proud.

He could hardly bear to tear his eyes away from the projection as the girl’s body twisted impossibly, her dress dragged and torn until a fresh river of black was ripped free from her breast. He gripped the arms of the chair, knowing what was to come next. After all, he’d seen it for real.

The unmistakable white curve of an expectant belly.

Blackness seeping downwards, only to fade to nothing.

Herrick didn’t need to see the image of lips and tongue smoothing the blackness away, then teeth and nails ripping and clawing for more. He could taste everything without it.

He could still hear the primal scream of despair and loss as the girl’s mouth silently stretched and her torn neck arched in a cruel facsimile of orgasm.

It needs a title, he thought. ‘The Sheik’ was making a legend of Valentino. ‘The Darkest Heart’ could do the same. Not that Mitchell needed his ego inflating. Not yet at least. Everything in its own good time.

“I think we might be needing more copies of this.” He called over his shoulder without shifting his gaze from the beauty flickering before him. “It would be selfish not to share.”


	7. Shameful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mitchell and Herrick have a small problem to resolve. I'm sure they'll find a solution.

"And you let him walk away?” Derision dripped from Herrick's every pore. “So what happens next, I wonder? Let’s surmise, shall we? Off our young man pops to the local police fucking station with his sad tale and description of his sister’s oh-so-helpful ‘gentleman friend’. That would be a possibility, don’t you think?”

He stepped forward, pressing himself into Mitchell’s space. 

“And you believe this is an acceptable situation?”

Mitchell flinched at the sensation churning in his gut. He knew her well enough. She had seeped through his bones drop by acid drop for five years and pooled deep, where she lay in wait.

She was shame.

He regretted the decision to come here now. But it’s not as if he could have waited for Herrick to return to the guesthouse before telling him that for once he’d left a trail. Who knows who might be watching there. The little waitress could have more family, more friends out on the hunt and Herrick was their only lead. So he’d shaken the brother’s hand, strode straight out of the scullery door and ducked into the back lane. As soon as he was secure in the knowledge no-one was following, a brisk half-walk half-run through the twisting streets of Soho had seen him reach the front steps of the 44 Club only a little out of breath.

Christ knows what had been going on at the Club today. The cleaning and tidying appeared a never-ending task. A couple of vampires hefting cables and a huge white sheet knocked into him in the entrance hall before shooting the strangest wide-eyed looks in his direction. One even gave an awkward little bow before moving on. What the hell was that about.

Herrick pulled him away from the stairs leading up to the private room where the clank of metal being dragged about still echoed around. Instead he was ushered with a push between the shoulder blades into the Club's tiny office.

Of course Herrick was by no way finished as he raised a finger perilously close to Mitchell's right eye. Resisting the instinct to flinch, Mitchell pushed his weight to the floor and held steady.

The hiss of air sucked in between Herrick's teeth to calm himself as he swung away told Mitchell this was just the beginning. A lecture of biblical proportions loomed.

He had no need of this lesson. To put his comrade in jeopardy was shameful and he knew it. As shameful as shaking a skinny hand and choosing to spare a life today. No, under the circumstances it was much worse - because it was about them all, about the whole world. His brave new world full of inverted reflections. For years now he’d stumbled about, clumsy in an empty hall of mirrors as he struggled to follow the bright guiding light of Herrick’s logic.

 He may have been a stubborn pupil to begin with, stupid even, clinging as he had to old truths until they were ripped out of him one by one. But it was never about loyalty to comrades - _that_ he understood.

Anger warmed his blood. “Herrick, shut up -“

“Don’t you dare make excuses -“

"His name's James Murray. He goes by Jimmy. He lives down in Limehouse, 76 Salmon Lane, a few doors from the Chinese café. It's got a blue front door. But because he works shifts at the docks he won't be home before ten in the evenings this week, until Sunday when he's got the day off. He shares lodgings with two other dockers, but they're on different shifts this week, so -“

"Is that so?" Herrick's nails tapped out a staccato beat on the tabletop, “And I'm expected to be impressed by this I presume, _Mister bloody Holmes_. Even though I’m talking to the fucking idiot who let him walk away.” He grabbed the neck of a decanter on the table, knuckles white.

Mitchell recognised a tinge of fear in the rising tone of the tirade thrown in his face. The churning stopped and a slow smile curled the side of his mouth as he sat on the edge of the table and twisted to look straight into iced blue eyes. He let his voice drop lower until Herrick began to lean forward to catch his words.

"But he's willing to meet you anywhere, anytime that suits you, _Mister_ Herrick. Which is brave considering what it would mean if he just took off from his job without explanation. People would assume he’d done a runner himself. He would need to be desperate to agree to that, don't you think, _Mister_ Herrick?"

He waved an empty envelope in the air, while his voice turned silkier by the second.

"Because, you see, _Mister_ Herrick, I don't think he was alone when he came looking for you. Maybe he was more suspicious than he was green-looking. And I for one didn't fancy having my arse in the air scrubbing the kitchen floor clean of blood, shit and piss when the local fucking police came knocking down the door."

The envelope fluttered onto the table, coming to rest at Herrick’s fingertips with an address in perfect schoolboy penmanship laid out neatly. Mitchell snapped his back straight, cutting the quiet between them with a huffed breath and a brisk “right then” as he returned to his usual tone.

“I’ll do your dirty work when you need me to. For Christ’s sake, man, you know that. But today was not the day. So, as it seems I'm only the fucking idiot, I reckon now you had better go and do it yourself."

With a finger he pushed a whisky glass a single inch across the table.

There was another beat on wood before Herrick barked out a laugh.

* * *

Ivan said nothing when she reached over to lift the Knave of Clubs. For anyone else three days would be long enough to provoke a remark at least, but it seemed he hadn’t noticed either her absence or her return. Ellie let her fingers drift across the back of his hand as he moved towards the card a fraction too late. That earned a casual “good evening, my sweet” flicked her way. Nothing more. Ivan hadn’t even glanced up from the cards to acknowledge her presence. An old knot knot twisted, provoking a dull ache. Not pain, not any more. So she hadn’t been missed and that didn’t surprise her. She didn’t matter enough, not deep down. She never had and she never would.

Ellie wondered whether this was what it meant to be a ghost. Breathing, feeling, screaming - yet never even rippling the air.

She was a shiver of cold in this world. Nothing more.

Ellie tapped the card against her lips, the edge cutting in. She was far beyond the point of making polite social chit chat with him tonight.

“He knew, didn’t he. The bastard. He designed that little show of his especially for me.”

Spitting out the words that had been tumbling round her head for days didn’t diffuse the anger, but at least she got his attention. Ivan’s fingers moved with slow precision as they pushed the cards into a heap.

“Show?"

“Don’t play me for a fool Ivan, you know I mean Herrick’s sacrificial lamb.  A waitress, I heard.”

“Oh Ellie.” Her back stiffened as he stood and snaked behind her, a hand barely stroking over her hair. ”Of course he knows. But I don’t think...”

“I’m going to kill the bastard. I don’t care what the bloody rules say, I’ll stake the little shit and I’ll enjoy every second.”

His hands were cold and firm as they began working circles into the base of her neck.

“Elizabeth! Language, darling... I don’t doubt you are more than capable. And when you do, please make sure I’m there to applaud from the public gallery. But it wasn’t about you, it was about Mitchell.”

“Not everything is about Mitchell.”

“No. But this is.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. How could it be?”

“Because he likes you. Herrick doesn't approve.”

“So?”

“And you like him.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Really. Remember you told me once he was dangerous. Only to you, my love, only to you.”

“And why the hell would that be?”

His hands relaxed onto her shoulders and he gave a little tug inviting her to rest her head back against his chest. Her resistance drew a sigh and he dropped his hands to her waist. “Because after time in his company you come home raw and ragged. Or you run away and lick your wounds. That’s why.”

“And you know this how, exactly? Tell me, Ivan, because you are such an expert on feelings.”

It was futile to try to hurt him. How could she hurt someone who had long forgotten how to care. After all, that is what had drawn them together in the first place. It was unfair of her to change the rules now.

He dropped a kiss on her head before stepping away. "You should eat. Food, that is. I’ll see what we have."

Honest to God, in that moment she wanted to kill him too.

“Fuck you Ivan.”

“What do you want me to do?’

“I don’t want you to do anything, I just need… to get away…. After staking the little shit, obviously.”

“You’re going to keep running then?”

“I repeat - Fuck you Ivan.”

“Will you take besotted Mitchell with you after you vaporise his mentor? Sounds like a foolproof plan. Though perhaps you’ve forgotten the way you tore him down the morning after. Explaining that episode away might be a little tricky. He’s confused and pissed off, you know. Which is not a good combination for our Mitchell, I’m sensing.”

“Fu-“

“But I’m sure you’ll bring him round with the offer of a nice cosy love affair. You might have to tell him why William had to go, of course. Because if you don’t someone else will. Your piano maestro is looking out for Mitchell I hear. He’s bright enough to piece it together soon.”

Ivan didn’t even blink when the upended card table crashed hard on the wooden floor.

“What do you want me to do?” he repeated, reaching out to take Ellie’s limp hands between his own.

“Can you put me back together again then Ivan? Seal up these cracks? I can’t even look at Mitchell anymore without my nails reaching to scratch his face to ribbons. I tried to warn him that night, you know, but…. He ripped that girl. When he realised she was carrying a child he- he smiled. Smiled!  And then ripped into her. I -“

“He’s young, my sweet. How could you hope he’d be able to stop. Or want to. He’s not special or -"

“Would you have stopped yourself? Knowing I was there?”

“No. I think not.”

“No.”

“It isn’t the same.”

“It is to me. Herrick understands that even if you don’t.”

“If it helps,” Ivan released her hands, “Herrick won’t be here for much longer. It's no secret he's fitting out property in Bristol. Seth is bragging about the original manacles in the cellars so loudly a couple of the London lads are already planning to head down and join him. It's frankly ridiculous. You should hear him philosophise like he's some kind of expert. So many deluded plans about walking in Richard Turner’s footsteps, and raising Bristol to it’s former pre-eminence. ‘Putting Venice back in its place’ were his exact words.

Whether Mitchell leaves with him is - I suggest - very much in your hands.”

 

* * *

Jimmy Murray didn’t mind the long night walk from the docks back up through Limehouse. The chill in the air cleared the lingering acrid dust from his nose and speeded his steps. He fingered the edge of the wage packet in his pocket with relief. Additional shifts didn’t bring in much extra cash, but he needed to have something to offer in return for news on Alice’s whereabouts. Not as a bribe, exactly, but the digs in the guesthouse in Soho were grim, so Mr Herrick would probably welcome a small reward for his assistance, even if he was too much of a gentleman to admit it.

It was a surprise to see the lanky frame of the man from the guesthouse sitting on the alley wall as Jimmy approached the turning into Salmon Lane. There was no mistaking him in the light thrown up by the match held close to his face.

“Jimmy. Thank goodness. I’ve been freezing my arse off waiting for you. Want a cig?”

No mistaking the accent either.

“Please. Yes. Do you have any news?”

“Some. The gentleman you were looking for came back y’see, and he said -“

Jimmy stepped towards the outstretched cigarette.

“I said that I’d very much like to keep it in the family.”

Jimmy’s gut lurched at the unexpected proximity of the man in the shadow of the wall, half hidden by the dangling legs of the Irishman. This second man sounded amused by something.

“Wouldn’t you prefer to stay and help?” the man asked as his companion jumped down.

“You wanted a lookout, mate, so I’ll stick with the plan.” The younger man appeared to hesitate, and then placed the cigarette between Jimmy’s lips. “Take this,” his voice nearly inaudible. “I found Herrick for you. I’m sorry.” And then he walked away towards the end of the alleyway.

“Ah. A last cigarette. I apologise for my friend. He’s a sentimental devil. So, Mr Murray, you wanted to find out what happened to Alice? It’s tricky to explain. So if you’ll allow me, I’ll demonstrate instead.”

 


	8. Ellie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After removing Herrick's little problem Mitchell allows himself to think about the possibility of finding a life in Soho. But if he is serious about working with Ivan, there's Ellie...

 --- Please note the updated tags - this chapter includes references to the loss of a baby in pregnancy. ---

* * *

_He is my reflection._

_I've survived for seventy years only because the mirror is empty._

_I cannot see. Therefore I am not._

_Mitchell shows me my face. I exist. I am._

_As ever, Ivan asked the important question - am I going to run?_

_Soldier on or surrender._

_And there’s the crux; the conflict Ivan doesn’t understand, not any more. I choose to believe he knew it once upon a time - when he was the preacher on the Welsh hillside having his faith ripped from him in the morning mist. I refuse to accept he was reborn in that moment with his old self already irretrievable. But perhaps this is my delusion. Perhaps all the passion and belief of his human life was the mask. Perhaps the husk which remains, so empty of feeling, was always the real truth buried inside. Perhaps._

_Mitchell is raw and bleeding still._

_It’s terrifying because he shows me that beneath the smile and the lipstick, so am I._

_I can’t watch him soldier on. I can’t watch him surrender either._

_I should run._

_I can’t help him because I’m lost too._

_It hurts. So much._

 

* * *

 

It turned out that knocking on the warehouse door was infinitely harder than Mitchell expected. So there he stood, exposed and foolish, hovering on the doorstep with a fist left hanging in mid-air.

A quick exhale of breath punched from his lungs as he dropped his head to his chest.

It had all seemed so easy.  The omnibus wound its way through the streets of Piccadilly and Soho while he held onto the rail, swaying gently as he weighed up the best way to talk Ivan into giving him a job. He’d hopped down at the bus stop clear in his mind, but now he was on the doorstep it all drained away. Instead his thoughts clouded with Ellie. It wasn’t comfortable any more. If anything, it was a walk along a knife’s edge knowing the blade can cut deep.

She had weaved into his consciousness when he was least able to resist. How exactly this had happened was a mystery. The defences had been built high and thick. He thought he was safe. But  despite the barricades his nights were warmed by memories her teasing over his choice of films, laughing at his waltz, and the brush of her fingers against his hand when the rawness bled through. Kindness, laughter, warmth.

There’s danger in drawing closer to the warmth. This was the lesson he’d been so slow to learn, despite the price paid by an angel in a Belgian brothel back at the beginning. But still he yearned.

As always, thoughts of companionship brought Herrick’s voice to mind. _“Fools, all of them. Do not be seduced by the false memories, son. Remember who you are now. You are the overman, the ubermensch. You’re free to be who you truly are, the rest are only human - or less.”_ Sometimes Mitchell fervently wished Herrick wouldn’t read quite so much. The result was never good and was the cause of far too many nights running to the nearest bar to clear his headache with beer.

But maybe with one of his own kind? Someone who understood everything. Someone who could share it all. No need to hide. Where there was no pounding pulse to draw out the monsters. A place where a shared bed would be a refuge instead of a slaughterhouse.

But here on the doorstep he remembered every last word she’d spat at him - “ _don't ever, ever touch me again. You do not lay a finger on me. If you do I will kill you_.”

His fist dropped to his side without a knock.

He should walk away. Herrick was waiting.

 

What he didn’t expect was to have the door flung open in his face.

The familiar tall frame of the 44 Club’s piano player bowled straight into him at speed. They both stuttered for a moment, strong fingers gripping Mitchell’s elbow as he fought to steady himself on the step.

Taken off guard, Mitchell started to babble. “Fuckin’ hell. Sorry. Maestro. Wasn’t expecting that. Or you. How are you? It’s been a while. I’m meeting Ivan. Why are you here? Anyways. I was thinking, y’know, he’ll need help. Well, there must be things I could -“

“Christ. It’s you!” The shocked brown eyes slipped away from his as the pianist took a pace back and released his arm. “Ivan’s gone out. You should come back later.“

“But he said he’d be here tonight. He’s expecting me.”

“Come on Mitchell, let’s go get a pint. I’m buying.”

“Shit. I’d prepared the whole ‘give me a job’ speech. I’ll forget it all by tomorrow. D’you think he’ll be back soon? I can wait.”

“Look my friend, if you’re this wound up already a pint will help calm you down. Come on, the Dog and Duck is just -“

The door was about to close behind them when he heard the metallic click of heels on the iron staircase. He shot out an arm to hold it open, in time to fix Ellie’s gaze as she stepped down into the hallway.

“Mitchell,” he felt sharp fingers dig into his elbow again, “the landlord has a corner set aside away from the mirrors. Good ale too. If we go now we can -”

“Wait a minute, I just want to -” Mitchell twisted his arm away and thoughtlessly manhandled the man in front of him to the side by the shoulders. “Just want to…”

As he walked closer he saw Ellie transfixed with a glare in her eyes that screamed her old words in his head: “ _I will kill you_.”

He must have imagined it, because when she eventually released his stare her tight voice was talking to his companion, not him. “Don’t worry, it would be better if you left us for now. I’ll be fine. I can handle this.”

He let their argument wash over him. It was too late to back away. This had already gone on for long enough. If he was going to work with Ivan he and Ellie needed to reach an understanding whether she wanted to or not. Finally the piano player gave in, but before leaving he raised a hand to grip the back of Mitchell’s head.

“Find me.” Before Mitchell could respond, he let go just as abruptly. “I promised you a pint. Remember that.”

 

* * *

 

She didn’t wave him upstairs to the living quarters, or invite him to follow her. She stood at the bottom of the spiral staircase, her voice echoing around the brick walls as the door shut behind him.

“Why are you here?”

The sound was a chilly as the warehouse walls. Mitchell bridled against the hostility. “Oh I dunno. Let’s think. Why might I be here? To invite you to the Picture House? There’s a triple-bill tonight.”

“This triple-bill Mitchell, are you on it?”

“Am I what?”

“Forget it. I thought I’d made myself clear enough. You know the way out.”

It was the exaggerated sigh she used as she turned to walk away that lit the lingering tinder of anger in Mitchell. He cursed under his breath.

“I was invited, Ellie. I’m here to see Ivan. You could at least offer me a drink.”

“I’m not thirsty. Look, Mitchell, Soho isn’t the place for you.”

“Fine. If you say so. But as I’m here, answer me something. What did I do? Why do I disgust you so much? You’re screwing Ivan for Christ’s sake. Holy Mother of God, I’ve heard plenty about his tastes. Double standards stink, y’know.”

She folded her arms as she faced him square on. “Don’t push it, soldier.”

“And the first night we met you showed me how to improve my killing technique. Before half fucking me against the bathroom wall. So forgive me for thinking I deserve an explanation.”

His gait grew silky as he moved towards her, head cocked to the side as if deciphering a puzzle.

“Oh I’m sorry. Was that too blunt, Ellie? Too uncultured? I’m no Ivan. I can’t wrap it all up in beautiful speeches. I was going to try. I even made notes. But you know what, fuck that. I don’t want to be civilised any more. And I’m not going to pretend there isn’t something going on between us.”

“You have a very high opinion of yourself Sergeant. Let me make this crystal clear so you can get it through your impressively thick skull. There is nothing going on between us. Have you got that now? Would you like me to write it down for you, just to be sure?”

He snorted. “Keep telling yourself that if it helps. Tell Ivan. Tell your piano friend. But don’t ever expect me to play along with your lies.”

“You can leave right now. Or you will be thrown out.”

“Oh I’ll leave, don’t you worry, but not without finishing this. You’re lying, darlin’. I can see it in you. I know it. Inside - here”, he jabbed towards his own chest, “I can feel it. So what changed?  What have I done? I can’t put it right if you don’t -”

"Typical bloody man! It's always about you, isn't it. What YOU want. What YOU deserve. What I should give YOU. Or what? What if I don’t want. You get to take it anyway because you think I owe you? One ridiculous fumble and you think I am in your debt! Like a part of me belongs to you!” She raised a hand as she gulped down the fury, talking over his stunned objection.

“Tell me, were you always this self obsessed? What were you like before, I wonder. Did you preen yourself in front of the sheep when you got bored of your tiny little life? Practice your seduction technique on the hillside in the pelting rain?”

“M-my what?”

“No, let me guess. It was the schoolgirls at the village hall hanging on your every word and waiting for a dance. The dangerous boy from over the hill. The one they could catch; the one they could tame. Ah, the love of a good woman, is that what you took? How many did you fuck in the hay for five minutes, then smirk knowingly when they could never look the good Father in the face at Mass again."

Mitchell heard the words but they made no sense. There was no semblance of his life in the scenes laid out before him. The shy, lanky boy who took two years to realise Maire might be dancing with him at the ceilidh because she liked him, and not because Aunt Bernadette had asked her to. But Ellie's rage pinned his feet to the floor, his head barely shaking as she carried on, her voice dropping lower.

"Don't worry, doll. I know all about the dangerous boy from over the hill. You want to finish what you started? Another roll in the hay? Fine. That’s easy. Fucking is easy, you know that. Come here.”

Neither of them moved.

“No?” She untangled her arms and held them open wide. “Changed your mind? You weren’t so hesitant before. But as you please. As always.” She twisted away and started back up the stairs without a backward glance. “The door’s behind you. I’ll tell Ivan he missed you.”

“I only - only -“ Mitchell waited for the clang of the upstairs door slamming shut behind her. Instead the click of heels stopped, and he looked up to see Ellie slumped against the rail, eyes closed. She looked so small folded onto the iron stair with her forehead pressed against the back of her hands. The anger and confusion in his veins hummed gently as his mind tried to weigh up what to do. He could retreat with a slammed door of his own, and tell Herrick that Bristol was exactly where he wanted to be. Or he could rush up the stairs, whispering platitudes, and hope to wake up tomorrow wrapped in her bedsheets.

 

He did neither.

Instead he sat on the floor, the stone cold beneath him, head rested back against the bricks.

The silence raged on in the space between them.

"You’re still here?” Ellie didn’t open her eyes to check.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I’m still here because you are. I could ask you the same question, but I don’t expect to get an answer. ”

“Running away isn’t working too well for me at the moment.”

“So you decided to stop running?”

“I suppose I did. Right here on this step. The end of the line.” Her laugh was too shaky to be convincing.

He nodded, although he knew she couldn’t see him acknowledge her.

The minutes of silence stretched out again. Until finally -

“Mitchell. Truth or dare?”

“Excuse me? Oh. Well. Parlour games aren’t my thing, although I can play a mean round of charades if you get me drunk enough. Because it’s you asking I choose truth, of course.”

Her words were crisp and clear holding no anger, no teasing. “What’s the worst thing you’ve seen?”

There wasn’t a second’s hesitation in his reply. “The Somme. Nothing will ever come close to that - not  ever again. They call it a battle, but it was… ah, there are no words. You?”

He watched her hands grip the railing so tightly the whites of her knuckles were visible even from where he sat. Her eyes remained clamped shut. “There are so many to choose from over the decades. Ivan’s reputation is well-earned, and I’ve seen war first hand too. But now when I close my eyes - every time I close my eyes - I see your hands on a girl named Alice, your dark curls against the red and white of her skin.”

Mitchell felt the protest rise in his throat; how could this possibly be worse than a hundred things she’d done herself, but Ellie pressed on, eyes still unseeing.

“It’s not so long ago really, the eighteen-fifties. Only seventy years. That’s no more than a blink of the eye. As was I. I was nothing. Born in Oxford 1825, died in Oxford 1853. Except I didn’t. If I had a headstone that would be all it could say about me.

"Mine is such an unremarkable life. I was poor enough to gather wild flowers and sell them for ha’pennies on the steps of theatres and churches. Naive enough to believe the promises of the boy. Foolish enough to think it would be different for me. And desperate enough to follow the stranger to the last cottage in the row because her kind, Christian offer of work in her house despite the sinful condition I could no longer hide would mean I would eat that month, and then at least my baby could thrive.”

Fear slid down his spine at her words. His hands pressed into the stone slabs of the floor as she continued, voice quiet but unwavering.

“Hell was in that house. I had been procured for specialist tastes, you see. He sat in the corner dressed in finery so very out of place next to the cold ash in the fireplace. He was soft and young and rich, I thought, but his hands were calloused from toil when they touched me, just as mine were.”

Mitchell flinched as her eyes opened to gaze directly into his own, but he didn’t turn away.

“From this point I think you can tell the story better than I. What does it feel like Mitchell? Tell me. Which heartbeat do you chase down first? Mother or child? How high does it take you? You know. But I can tell you what real hell is. It’s to wake. At least you spared Alice that.”

His mouth was too dry respond. But what could he say.

“There is another hell, though, a new one designed especially for her. William Herrick has seen to that. She’ll lose her name, her identity. Instead she’ll forever be called The Victim in the moving picture sensation. Congratulations Mitchell, you made her immortal. ”

“Oh Christ.”

“I understand why you took her. I really do. I realise you didn’t know what was planned - or why. And I’m guessing you haven’t been allowed to see the… the film yet. Herrick isn’t foolish enough to let that happen until he’s circulated plenty of copies so there’s nothing you or even Ivan can do about it. But it makes no difference. Not to me. Just as he knew it wouldn’t. You are now my nightmare.”

“Your Somme.”

“My Somme. I’m so sorry, Mitchell.”

“Ellie… please… I… I’m…”

“It’s alright. There’s no point in trying to say it, doll. Not any more.”

He nodded. It was over.

“Can I ask…?”

“Yes, you can ask. What is it?”

“He recruited you. Did you stay with him? And - and - your baby…? What -?”

“I didn’t stay with him. He kept me with him - which isn’t the same at all. He became bored soon enough. One morning he walked out of the cottage door and simply never returned. I hear of him all the time; there are always whispers. He disappeared from view for decades, but he’s back now. He’s in Berlin, I believe. My baby died with me, of course. It couldn’t wake with me. Too long without any sustenance from my dead body. Or maybe it was too pure to survive the traces of vampire blood, unlike me.”

“God I’m so sorry Ellie, so sorry. What happened to you, to you both?” Mitchell’s question was so quiet in the still hall that Ellie thought she’d imagined it rather than heard it.

“Later I woke with the scar on my belly already healing. He wouldn’t tell me whether my child had been a girl or a boy. He’s a sadist, you see. He has plenty of experience of torture in all its forms, so he was trying something new. Two weeks later he stroked my belly and smiled - ‘ _you are unscarred my love_ ’, he said. He called me beautiful. He pinned my arms down and kissed me there, on my stomach. That was the night before he left. And he was right. I am completely unscarred.”

“Why is he still out there? I’d stake him. Ivan would. You could.”

“Power, Mitchell. Rules. And the Old Ones are protected. Anyway this world of ours is full of stories like mine. Or yours. All of them nightmares. All of them insignificant. As I said, my life is unremarkable in everything except my recruitment on the whim of a vampire who was curious about what would happen. Nothing more.”

“I wish it hadn’t happened, Ellie, any of this. You know that don’t you?”

“I do. In another life, doll. Perhaps we could have found each other in another life.”

 

* * *

 

_He climbed the spiral staircase then. Step by step. Cautious - as if I was a butterfly that would flit away. He stopped two steps below me, silent and waiting for permission. My palms ached from gripping the iron railings, and stung as I released them and pulled myself up with arthritic care. I am embarrassed to say I stumbled rather than walked to close the gap between us. His fingers were calloused as they wrapped my shoulders and stroked my arms. This made me shiver. He misunderstood - of course he would - and held me tighter, drawing my head to his shoulder and whispering kind words into my hair._

_He is still kind. I wish he wasn’t, because kindness will shred him, inch by wretched inch._

_Perhaps I should soldier on. I could stay and teach him. Teach him how to kill what is inside._

_And today, Mitchell, the lesson is how to kill mercy. That's beginners' level. In no time we'll have you up to speed, and then I'll teach you how to kill hope. That's a tricky one. It has a habit of only playing dead. But I'll let you into a secret - it really doesn't spring eternal._

_I cried all my tears many years ago._

_But this hurts. So much._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the BBC's Being Human for creating such wonderful characters. They're not mine and I promise to give them back in one piece. Mostly.
> 
> On the other hand all errors are definitely mine. Any comment or howls of protest are always welcome - writers love that, so don't hold back :)  
> _____________________________________________________________________________________
> 
> Toby Whithouse, creator and writer of Being Human:- "... so in terms of legacy I'd like to think that our little show has made people look at the world in a slightly different way. That it opened the door, just a crack, to your imagination and fanned the flames of your speculation and creativity. Nothing would make me happier than for these stories to have inspired you to make your own." (BBC BH Blog, March 2013)
> 
> Me:- I think I love you, Toby. Here goes...


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